La Vie Boheme
by Ameriphobia
Summary: At age 15, Alfred Jones was rescued from the streets of New York by aspiring author/stripper Arthur Kirkland. Since then, Alfred has managed to find a place among Arthur's misfit friends. But Alfred's new life, as well as the lives of his friends, is turned on its head when Alfred's brother finds him after 13 years of separation. Fruk, Gerita, and others.
1. Chapter 1

_"Alfred!" The voice is very soft. Although it seems to be quiet by nature, it also sounds as if it's coming from far away; several yards, Alfred would say. It is very insistent. Alfred feels as if there's cotton in his ears._

_"Alfred…they're taking me…they're trying to take me away from you…."_

_"I won't let them." The desperate words fall from Alfred's lips without his controlling them. Gripped by sudden panic, he reaches out into the darkness, attempting to catch hold of something that isn't there. Somewhere in front of him, Alfred hears the muffled sobs growing even fainter and farther away. He continues to reach towards the sound, towards the voice that he can almost no longer hear._

_Alfred's heart jolts as he is suddenly gripped from behind by an unknown pair of arms. He shivers with something deeper than fear as the person who has trapped him leans down near his face and whispers words in his ear, in a tone that should be comforting, but instead sends shivers cascading down Alfred's spine._

_"_Shh, Alfred, it's alright. You need to stop yelling. Everything is going to be alright."

_In front of him, there is a mirror; he can't remember when it had appeared, but he also can't remember a time without it being there. From the mirror's surface, a boy stares back at him. He looks like Alfred, but he is not Alfred. He is trying to speak through the glass, but no sound is breaking through the translucent barrier. Until the boy lets out a terrible scream._

_The sound erupts in Alfred's ears. The glass shatters. _

_The boy is gone. _

Beep, beep, beep.

"Uhg…."

Beep, beep, beep.

Alfred rolled over. Sensing the early morning darkness, his body made an educated decision to remain in its current, horizontal position, happily ignoring the fact that his alarm clock was about to go into full-blown existential crisis mode at any second.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

"Fine!" he shouted at the panicking appliance, slamming his fist down on the off button with enough force to send it sliding across the wooden floor. On said wooden floor lay the futon that was currently playing host to Alfred's unmoving body . After a few seconds of struggling, he managed to find his glasses, and shoved them onto his face. The time on the clock read 4:34 AM.

"Christ," he mumbled as he rolled out of bed and began searching the floor for his clothes. Working the "early bird" shift, which Alfred had more appropriately renamed the "ass-crack of dawn hellish nightmare" at McDonald's, an institution that he was beginning to love less and less with every dreadful morning coffee rush, was going to take some getting used to. Possibly the rest of Alfred's life, if the past few days were any indication of what the future would hold.

When Alfred entered the main room of their small one-bedroom apartment, Arthur, his twenty-six-year old English roommate, was sitting at his little cluttered desk, typing unenthusiastically on his computer. As usual, there was a cup of tea steaming near his right hand, and a cigarette resting between his lips. Arthur was an aspiring novelist.

He didn't look up when Alfred entered. "Sleep well?" he asked lazily.

"Mmmph."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. I heard you shouting at the alarm clock."

Alfred ran a hand through his dirty blond hair as he looked at his friend, still in a daze from having just woken up. "Still up from last night?" he questioned.

"Just got home a few minutes ago."

Alfred thought about asking Arthur what he had been doing to keep him out until almost five in the morning, considering he usually only worked at the club until about one or two, but an impressively large yawn interrupted his thought process.

Jumping at the chance to mock Alfred's pain as ever, Arthur made a show of loudly closing his laptop, and stretched as he stood up and put out his cigarette. "Well, _I'm_ off to bed," he proclaimed smugly, as Alfred glared sleepily at him, "I hope you've made it." There was only enough room in the apartment for one futon, but thanks to their opposing schedules Arthur and Alfred now rarely had to share, which was completely essential to the both of them maintaining a certain level of sanity.

"Shut up," Alfred mumbled, guiltily realizing that he had not, in fact, made the bed, "It isn't even a bed. Fuck, it isn't even a real_ futon_."

"It's a Japanese futon…what on Earth are you doing?" While Arthur had been speaking, Alfred had begun to sniff the air like a dog.

"Mmm…Do I smell doughnuts?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, placing his hands on his hips in his favorite gesture of general disapproval, "I picked some up for you on the way home. But I'm not sure if you deserve them if you've decided to make fun of my taste in furniture."

Alfred panicked, "But _Artie_," he whined, "I'm so _tired_. I need _doughnuts!"_

Arthur sighed, "Fine. They're on the counter. And don't call me 'Artie'."

"Awesome! You're the best, man." Said Alfred, suddenly energized as he walked to the counter and began to stuff his face with fried pastries.

Arthur shook his head as he made his way to the counter to place his empty mug in the sink, "Why are you so tired, anyway? I told you to start going to bed earlier if you're going to work this shift." Alfred looked away shamefully. Arthur groaned, "You were up playing video games with Kiku again, weren't you?"

Alfred swallowed a bite of doughnut. "He just got a new one, Arthur! And he brought these crazy Japanese snacks that start off like powder and then turn into little adorable hamburgers!" To emphasize the true smallness of the hamburgers, Alfred held up his right hand, leaving little more than an inch of space between his thumb and forefinger.

Arthur stared at his younger roommate. Standing hunched over the counter with his tired red eyes and bed head, shoveling doughnuts in his mouth with gusto, and ranting on about magic Japanese hamburgers, he honestly looked more than a little insane. Arthur decided it was best to end the conversation there, and to talk to Alfred when he was a bit more… coherent.

"Well, I'm off to bed. Have fun flipping burgers…oh, and don't forget that Kiku and Feli's exhibition is tonight."

"Uhhhg…."

"Don't be rude. They're your friends."

"I just don't think I understand art."

"That's because you're uncultured."

"Whatever."

Arthur huffed as he walked towards the bedroom.

"Good night!" Alfred mumbled bitterly, as Arthur closed the door behind him.

Ludwig was not having a good day. In fact, it was precisely days like this one that made him wonder why he had ever made the decision to join the NYPD in the first place. It was days like this when Ludwig wished that the entire city was like his kitchen, and that he could wipe it clean methodically with disinfectants, and sponges, and no interruptions. After all, no one had ever heard of a speck of dust or a grease spot protesting, or trying to run.

But, Ludwig thought, a philosophical mood overtaking him as he surveyed the lazily humming, summer afternoon streets of Little Italy with perpetual suspicion, people are not really much like grease spots at all.

The day was July first, and one would think that the 90 degree (Fahrenheit, obviously) weather plus humidity would render the citizens of his adopted city complacent, with less of an inclination towards causing trouble and more of a desire to move their bodies as little as possible throughout the day; this was certainly how Ludwig felt, after all, as he sweated profusely through his navy blue uniform. However, the heat was apparently having the opposite effect on the majority of the city's population, as they seemed to be experiencing some kind of collective emotional breakdown under the sun's continuous oppressive assault. The result was an increased number of fights, minor thefts, and acts of vandalism that had left Ludwig stewing in equal parts exhaustion and agitation.

For the moment, however, everything appeared to be relatively calm. Large groups of tourists wandered down the street, taking pictures (mostly of themselves) on their phones, and enjoying rapidly melting cups of gelato, as men with suits and thick accents stood outside of small Italian restaurants, shouting at them and shoving menus in their faces. From somewhere nearby, the sounds of yelling men and metal clanking typical of construction work were constantly present, and, from somewhere a bit closer by, someone was playing a calm, meandering melody on an acoustic guitar.

Feeling dazed and as overheated as a slowly baking potato, Ludwig decided to take a break from walking and stand on the edge of the busy sidewalk for a few minutes. Almost as soon as he stopped his steady pace, however, he was abruptly slammed into by someone who seemed to have been walking quite quickly.

"Hey! Watch where you're going, you stupid bastard," snapped the person in question, with a thick, biting Italian accent. He was not looking at Ludwig; rather, he was bent over on the ground, attempting to gather the possessions that had apparently fallen out of his bag when the two had collided, hoping to grab them before they were swept away by the endless and aggressive stream of people walking on the sidewalk. Looking him over quickly, as he had grown accustomed to doing with new people, Ludwig noted that he was a young man, probably in his early twenties. His eyes and hair were of a similar dark brown, and his skin was tan. He was dressed in all black, regardless of the heat, his shirt slightly torn and pants too tight (in Ludwig's opinion, anyway). Despite the fact that Ludwig had already unconsciously labeled the boy as a potential troublemaker, he attempted to make amends.

"Sorry…ah, here. Let me help you with that." As Ludwig crouched down to help him with his things, he realized that the boy was suddenly staring up at him, his large brown eyes widened in horror. Dismissing the expression as a reaction to the realization that he had just cursed at a police officer, Ludwig ignored it as he reached out a hand for one of the items that the boy had dropped.

"Wait…no, I…." The boy stammered helplessly. Ludwig sighed heavily as he realized what had been the contents of the boy's bag.

In his hand was an average-sized can of acrylic spray paint.

He tilted his head up to look straight at the boy, who was doing little to keep the terror from his features. "And just what were you planning to do with these, kid?" He asked, lowering his voice to a more intimidating register as he held up the incriminating can of paint. In times like this, he always found that his strong German accent could be a very powerful persuasive tool.

He never got to hear the boy's answer, though, because before Ludwig could react he had dropped his belongings, jumped up onto his feet with surprising agility, and broken into a run, shoving aside the protesting masses as he barreled down the sidewalk.

"What-_scheiße,_" Ludwig cursed, running a hand through his sweat-drenched blond hair as he begrudgingly began to run after the delinquent. He was in good shape- in his late twenties, well-muscled, still not many years out of training- but that didn't mean that he was excited to go running marathons around New York in the early summer heat for the sake of some insolent kid.

And yet, true to his profession, Ludwig dutifully pursued the offender, causing minor disruptions within the crowd as he went. Then he paused as his eyes searched for a glimpse of that dark brown hair. After a few moments of thinking that maybe he has lost him, he caught sight of the delinquent just as he turned the street corner. Ludwig followed, bounding around the corner with purpose.

After that, several things occurred very rapidly. Firstly, Ludwig found himself making some unwanted contact with the hard concrete as he tripped on several unfortunately placed objects. Secondly, as he gathered his wits from the fall, Ludwig realized that he was currently sprawled out on the hard, dirty concrete, surrounded by a mess of square objects, and lying on top of something strangely soft and gangly.

Thirdly, as some small whimpering sounds were emitted from underneath him, Ludwig became aware that the object underneath him was, in fact, a person.

He immediately flung himself into a sitting position, feeling a slight twinge of pain as he did so. Before he could properly tend to the person who he had probably just crushed, however, the sounds of a struggle happening somewhere above his head caused Ludwig to look up.

The sounds were coming from the Italian boy, who was protesting loudly at a man who had at some point appeared behind him and lovingly, but somewhat forcefully, obstructed any attempts of the former to outrun his pursuer by spinning him around and throwing an arm over the boy's shoulders. He, much like the troublesome youth who was struggling and fuming within his grasp, had a dark complexion, with the exception of his eyes, which were of a startling, bright green. Slung over one of the man's shoulders was a heavily worn guitar case, and he maintained an easy, good natured grin as he addressed Ludwig, all the while ignoring the boys shouts and curses as he attempted to break free.

"Ah, what seems to be the problem today, officer?" he asked calmly, Spanish accent causing the words to drop lazily from his mouth like molasses. Smile never wavering, he used his free hand to help Ludwig to his feet. "Is Little Lovi here getting into trouble again? He can have quite the wild temper, no?"

"Don't call me that, you dumb bastard!" Lovi griped, although he seemed to be losing energy, and had all be stopped attempting to free himself. In response, the man only chuckled deeply, and the young delinquent's face turned an impressive shade of tomato-red.

Ludwig made a small _hmmph _sound in the back of his throat as he attempted to brush some of the dirt from his fall off of his uniform. "Actually," he began gruffly, "This boy was caught engaging in acts of vandalism."

The man gasped in surprise; Ludwig found it difficult to tell whether it was sincere or not. "No!" he exclaimed, "There must have been a mistake, yes? That doesn't sound anything like our Lovino…."

The boy rolled his eyes.

"…And you saw Lovino do this thing, officer?" the man asked innocently.

Ludwig stumbled a moment, "Well…not exactly, no."

The man made a small _hmm_ sound from the back of his throat, and suddenly Ludwig felt the need to defend his actions.

"But he _was_ carrying several cans of spray paint with him, and walking at an abnormally hurried pace." He explained, "He ran into me. Otherwise, I wouldn't have taken any notice of him."

The Italian boy, Lovino, bristled. "Well, maybe if you hadn't stopped right in the middle of the fucking _sidewalk…."_

But the Spanish man, to the surprise of both of them, cut Lovino off with a burst of lighthearted laughter. "Oh, silly Lovino!" he exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell him?" Lovino said nothing, opting only to stare at the older man with poorly hidden suspicion. The man then moved his attention back to Ludwig. "This has really all been a funny misunderstanding. You see, Lovino and his brother, Feliciano-he's the one you just tripped over-are participating in an art exhibition tonight. Lovi here was just bringing over some supplies, you see?"

Ludwig was unimpressed by the story. "Hm," he said flatly, "Is that so."

The man laughed that increasingly annoying laugh again. "Of course!" he proclaimed happily, "In fact, we would all love to see you there, wouldn't we, Lovi?"

"Hmmph."

"You see? He would love for you to come."

Ludwig sighed. This was all quickly becoming more effort than it was worth. "If this is true," he questioned, "Then why did he run away from me?"

Lovino, finally managing to break free from his captor, huffed. "Because you're really fucking scary, that's why. You're like, three times my size. What do you expect to happen when you talk to people with that freaking ugly accent of yours, huh?"

Before Ludwig could respond to this ridiculous statement, the older man clapped his hands together in one swift motion. "Well, there it is then! As you can see, there is no problem here. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I think that little Feli could use some help now, no?"

A high, sweet voice replied from the ground behind Ludwig, and he spun around to face it, suddenly and guiltily reminded of the person he had recently almost killed. "Oh!" it said. To Ludwig, it sounded so strangely musical, like a quiet tinkling of bells, "I'm okay, Antonio. I'm just happy big brother isn't in trouble!"

Ludwig glanced down at the boy, Feli, for a moment. He was on the small side, much like his brother, but with a slightly lighter complexion. And, Ludwig noted, feeling his throat go a bit dry, that there was something delicate, almost feminine, about his facial features. He looked at Ludwig with wide, innocent brown eyes, and the serious police officer suddenly felt as if he had been punched in the stomach; all of the air had for some reason been swept from his lungs. He inhaled sharply, attempting to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen.

After a moment of staring, Ludwig suddenly became aware that he was not moving. Then he wondered exactly _why _he wasn't moving…and then he decided to worry about that later. And then, he moved.

Luckily not enough time had passed for any of his present company to notice anything odd, although Feli's eyes did linger on him for an extra moment as Ludwig bent down to help the smaller man. As he did so, Ludwig realized that the many objects that he had fallen over were, in fact, paintings; it appeared as if Feli had been selling them on the sidewalk when Ludwig had rounded the corner.

"Here," Ludwig offered, hand shaking a bit as he picked up one of the paintings, "Let me help you with that."

Feliciano smiled brightly at him, "Thank you!" he said, seeming to harbor no resentment towards the man who had crushed him, nearly destroyed his livelihood, and almost arrested his brother, "I almost have it all fixed now, though."

Ludwig wasn't sure if he should say something now. For whatever reason, he had become suddenly very conscious of what he was doing, and was beginning to feel a bit nervous. _Stop being ridiculous, _he told himself firmly. Instead of speaking, he glanced down at the painting that still rested in his hands. It was of a street in the city, Ludwig was sure of that; strewn across the campus were people and headlights and streetlights and concrete. But the artistry was somewhat impressionistic, and seemed to evoke feelings of an alternate city- one with more warmth, more light, and more gentleness.

"It's beautiful," Ludwig found himself saying aloud. Feliciano's eyes lit up.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Wow! Thank you so much!" He laughed, clapping his hands rapidly like a child, and Ludwig wondered what it was with these people and laughing when no one had told a joke. "Are you really coming to the exhibition?" he asked, and when Ludwig looked uncertain, said, "You should! It will be so much fun. All of our friends are coming, right Lovino?"

Lovino responded by continuing to glare murderously at his brother from above.

"Well…." Ludwig began pensively, assessing the situation, "I really should, ah, make sure that your brother isn't lying about this." _For police work, _he assured himself.

Feliciano clapped again, saying, "Yay! It's at nine o'clock tonight, at that building down the street, see?"

Ludwig clarified that he did in fact see the building in question, and that he did know how to get there. After that, he explained that he really needed to get back to police work and, after apologizing to Feliciano one last time, and sending a pointed threatening glare towards his brother, said goodbye to the three of them. He walked quickly, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the three other men as he could without wandering beyond his territory, all the while wondering just _what the hell_ had come over him during those last few moments.

Meanwhile, Feliciano remained on the sidewalk, and smiled after the police officer. "He seems nice," he said to Antonio and Lovino.

Antonio chuckled, "Looks like Feli has made a new friend, no?"

Lovino stared between the two in disbelief. "Friend?" he asked incredulously, "He tried to arrest me!"

"Yes," Antonio agreed, his words taking on a more serious tone, "And if it hadn't been for me, he would have. How many times do I have to ask you to stay out of trouble, Lovi?"

Lovino's face turned red again, and he mumbled something that may have been an apology. "Hey, how are we going to pretend that I'm supposed to be in that exhibition anyway, genius?" he muttered, face still the color of a ripe tomato.

Antonio rested his hands on his hips. "I'm sure we'll figure out something," he said optimistically. Feliciano nodded his head in agreement.

Lovino groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"We're all fucked."

It was a quarter past nine when Alfred and Arthur arrived at the studio. Arthur had wanted to leave earlier, as he was the kind of person to arrive on time for almost everything, but Alfred had (somewhat predictably) ruined his plans by taking an unintended nap on the floor of the apartment halfway through his ninth re-watch of Captain America, and then insisting that they stop and get food before going to the exhibition. But, after many shouts of "Well not all of us get to sleep until two in the morning you cranky, lazy old man," and, "This is ridiculous get out of my apartment I don't know why I took you in anyway", the two had somehow managed to extract themselves from their apartment and arrive at a reasonable time.

When they stepped into the room, which was modestly sized, with brick walls, a wooden floor, and dim lighting with the exception of the small lights trained on the art pieces, they were immediately waved over to the corner where their small group of friends had already congregated. As the two approached them, they realized that they were all discussing a single painting that rested on a wooden stand in the corner.

"It's really pretty good, Lovino," Antonio was saying.

"Yeah, well…I'm sort of used to doing art fast. Not like it matters…the bastard didn't even show up."

"What's this?" Arthur asked curiously as he peered over everyone's shoulders to get a better look at the painting- a colorful, graffiti-style caricature of a woman's face, "I didn't think you were going to be submitting anything, Lovino."

"Neither did he," said Antonio, chuckling.

Alfred looked at the painting for a moment, already starting to get bored with this whole thing. He liked art, really, he just found it to be generally lacking in things he enjoyed, like…rocket ships. And explosions. And other things that he understood.

"Hey, Kiku," he said suddenly, hoping that his best bro could help to entertain him, "Where's that one of me that you took a while ago?"

Kiku smiled lightly at him. The man was a slight, soft spoken photographer, who still had his bulky, old-fashioned camera around his neck even though he was showing his pictures, not taking them. While his reserved nature meant that he didn't usually form strong bonds with other people, he and Alfred had developed a fast friendship after being introduced through Feliciano, who he himself had known through (Alfred assumed) mutual artsy hangouts. The friendship was based primarily on a shared love of videogames, specifically of the Japanese variety that Kiku made a living by smuggling to the U.S. before their release dates, and selling for ridiculously inflated prices on the black market.

"My pictures are over here," he said, leading the group to his display. He pointed at one photo in particular; a black and white of Alfred sitting on a less busy sidewalk, wearing a hoodie, and staring out onto the street in front of him. Upon seeing it, Alfred perked up with excitement.

"That's me!" He exclaimed happily, "Wow. I'm like, famous now."

Kiku let go of another tiny smile. "I wouldn't say that, exactly. But thank you."

"They're all really beautiful, Kiku!" their friend Laura, a sculptor with green eyes, freckles and shoulder-length blond hair, complimented. Arthur and Feliciano expressed their agreement. Kiku seemed pleased, if not bit embarrassed by the attention.

Before anyone could say anything else, Lovino groaned loudly. "Great," he muttered, "_He's_ here."

At his words, everyone looked in the direction of the door, just as a man was closing it behind himself. He had slick blond hair and impressive muscles, but he was wearing an expression that would have been more appropriate on the face of a twelve-year-old trying to find a place to sit in the cafeteria on the first day of school. He crept into the room slowly, looking as though he would rather not be noticed. Any chance he had of that, however, was crushed as Feliciano called to him from across the room.

"Ludwig!" he chirped, waving at the man frantically, "We're over here! _Ludwig!"_

"Who's that?" Alfred asked.

"That's Ludwig!" Feliciano answered helpfully.

Arthur smirked, "Oh, is he? I would never have guessed."

Lovino's face was even more sour than usual as he explained, "That's the jerk who tried to arrest me today. I told him my spray paint was for the exhibition."

"Yes," Antonio agreed, "And I think Feliciano has taken quite a liking to him."

Lovino huffed, "He takes a liking to everyone."

"I do!" Feliciano beamed.

Meanwhile, the man had been walking towards them, wearing the expression of someone who was currently regretting every decision he had ever made.

"Hi Ludwig!" Feliciano said with a smaller, though still very enthusiastic, wave, "I'm so glad you could come!"

"Ah, yes…hello." The man looked incredibly uncomfortable. To his credit, everyone was staring at him, as if waiting for him to speak.

However, it was Lovino who broke the silence. "See, bastard?" he said, pointing aggressively to his painting in the corner, "I told you I wasn't lying."

Ludwig squinted at the painting suspiciously for a moment, and then sighed in resignation. "I suppose not. I apologize."

"Yeah, that's right, you'd better apolig- hey!" Lovino was cut off as Antonio swiftly stepped on his foot, giving him a look that clearly said, "Don't push it."

After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, Ludwig spoke again, "Well, I guess I should be going now…."

Feliciano looked heartbroken. "But," he squeaked, eyes somehow enlarging significantly on his small face, "You just got here! And you have to meet everyone first!"

Ludwig looked down at him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Go ahead."

Feliciano smiled like Ludwig had just given him the best present he'd ever received. "Well, you already met Lovino and Antonio," he started, "So that leaves…um…where did Kiku go?" Kiku had, in fact, fled as soon as he had realized that a cop had entered the room. Feli continued to introduce him anyway, undeterred, "Well, Kiku's a photographer. He's really nice. He took that picture of me!"

Feli pointed; Ludwig stared.

"Are you…wearing a dress in that picture?"

"Yes! Dresses are really fun."

Ludwig blushed furiously.

Feliciano appeared not to notice, and continued, "And this is Laura. She's a sculptor, and she makes really nice pastries!"

"Thanks, Feli!"

"Um, nice to meet you," Ludwig muttered, wishing he was at home with a book and some tube-shaped meat.

Feliciano then pointed to a tall, bespectacled blond boy, who appeared to be the youngest of the group, "This is Alfred. Arthur found him!"

"Found…? Ah, wonderful. The boy from the Bryan Park Statue Incident."

Alfred visibly paled, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Aw, shit. You're _that _cop?"

Feli giggled. "I don't think you've ever told me _that _story, Alfred."

"It was a while ago," Alfred mumbled, still looking ashamed, but also a little confused, "And it was in The Bronx. So why…?"

"I was moved," Ludwig explained, face devoid of any expression, "And I have a very good memory." He looked back at Feliciano. "Do you perhaps have any friends who _aren't _criminals?" he asked, exasperated.

The other man seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Um…I don't think Arthur is," he decided at last. Ludwig rubbed his temples.

Arthur, however, looked quite proud. "Yup," he declared, "Clean as a whistle."

Alfred barked a laugh.

"Excuse me, Alfred, is there something you find funny about that?"

"Well I wouldn't exactly say you were 'clean as a whistle', Arthur."

"And why not? I'll have you know I do honest work."

Alfred snorted, and Arthur looked as if he might backhand him. Ludwig, however, looked lost.

"Arthur's a stripper!" Feli clarified helpfully.

Arthur sighed wearily, "Thank you, Feliciano."

"You're welcome!"

Ludwig looked around him, noting with immense relief that Feliciano had introduced him to all of his friends. Before he could begin to say goodbye, however, Feli grabbed his arm and began pulling him to the other side of the room. "Here, I'll show you my paintings!" he said excitedly.

Ludwig realized that it was going to be a very, very long night.

In reality, the evening proved quite pleasant for everyone. Even though not that many people beyond their small circle of friends and the friends of other artists involved stopped by the exhibit, this was hardly out of the ordinary for the struggling artists, and they all just had a good time talking and laughing and looking through all of the pieces. Even Ludwig, who had always found himself rather baffled by artistic pursuits, felt that he had gained something from the experience. Every so often he would see something so abstract (and occasionally disturbing) that it would leave him simply staring in blank confusion, and Alfred would appear behind him, saying "Yeah. I don't really get it either." But at those times, Feliciano, who was intent on not leaving Ludwig's side, lest he attempt escape, would say something like, "It's not really about thinking. It's more about a feeling, you know?" that would be at the same time both so vague and so simple that it would leave Ludwig feeling strangely idiotic.

"My brother is an art curator," he found himself saying at one point that night, "But he has never explained these things to me in this way before."

"Oh, wow, he is?" Feliciano, seeming to miss the compliment entirely, had gushed, "That's so cool! I would love to meet him."

After a couple of hours had passed, and it seemed as if the small room was beginning to clear out entirely, they all began making plans for where to go next, and Ludwig, panicking, began to think of ways to disentangle himself from the uncomfortable social situation. He protested, but for some reason he felt himself being pulled in, both by the idea of getting his hands on some alcohol, and of the thought of his brother's nagging voice telling him that he should go out and socialize more often (and definitely _not _because of Feliciano's ridiculous puppy eyes). And so he gave in, wondering how he had landed himself in this bizarre situation, going out for drinks with people he barely knew and who he had virtually nothing in common with.

"We could go to the club…." The sculptor, Laura, suggested first. Arthur groaned.

"Definitely not. It's my night off, for Christ's sake."

"And besides," Lovino said, grinning wickedly, "She only wants to go so she can see _Michelle_, anyway."

The poor girl's face tinted pink. "I don't…" she mumbled, rubbing her left arm nervously, "I mean, it's not…."

"Oh, _of course," _Arthur huffed, "Everybody wants to see Michelle, as usual."

"Aw, don't worry man," Alfred consoled, giving him a swift pat on the back in that ludicrously heterosexual way that he had so skillfully perfected, "You're really good too, and stuff."

"You're just saying that because I put a roof over your head."

"Well…."

"And it doesn't matter what you say anyway," Arthur continued, "Because you're underage. You can't come with us."

Alfred groaned dramatically. "Aw, come on!" he whined, "That's so unfair, I mean I have a…" But just then Alfred was reminded of Ludwig's presence by his piercing glare and slightly raised eyebrow, and redirected his sentence so fast it was like he was turning a car around to avoid a tsunami. "…A job to do tomorrow morning, unlike some people," he finished, crossing his arms grumpily, "I wouldn't want to go anyway."

Lovino snickered, "Ha! Hey guys, Alfred can't go to a bar with us because he's a _baby."_

Arthur smirked, "Yup. Just a little baby…."

Alfred's eye narrowed. "Guys, please," he protested, "Not this again."

Antonio stepped closer to pinch Alfred's cheek, cooing "Aw, what a cute little baby!"

"You know I hate it when you do this…."

"Haha, poor baby Alfred!"

"Would you like some milk, widdle baby Alfred?"

"Do you need someone to walk you home?"

"Stop it!" Alfred yelled, pouting. He knew that, if he didn't put a stop to this now, they could go on for hours. It had happened before. "I'm not a baby! I'm going to be nineteen in like, three days. Geez."

Arthur frowned. "It it really that soon already?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Today's the first. And that means you all have to be nice to me!"

Ludwig's brow furrowed curiously, doing the math in his head as he asked, "Your birthday is on the Fourth of July?"

"Um, well, not really. But it's sometime at the beginning of July, so we always just celebrate it then."

"How…patriotic of you." Ludwig was becoming increasingly concerned about this (apparently eighteen-year-old) boy's situation. Why didn't he know his own birthday?

But Alfred, meanwhile, had brightened considerably at the mention of the approaching festivities. "Yeah!" he said excitedly, "It's awesome. We always have a big party on the roof, and it's like they set off all those crazy fireworks just for me!"

"I see."

"Well, birthday or not, you're still nowhere near twenty-one," Arthur said, bringing the conversation back to its original purpose, "Now, if we were living in a _sensible _country, you could do whatever you wanted. But, as it is, you'll have to go home."

Alfred rolled his eyes at the way Arthur said "sensible country". "Fine, whatever," he mumbled, "But if you drink too much and call me at two a.m., I'm not coming to carry you home. And, also, I'll kill you."

"I'm not a child, Alfred. I know how to handle my liquor."

And, at that (much to Arthur's dismay) Alfred was not the only one of them who burst into a fit of laughter.

They ended up in a pretty generic bar (to Ludwig's enormous relief; he had become a bit skittish at the mention of strip clubs, as that was a road down which he never again wanted to travel). Like many places in America, it was new and clean-looking; all chrome countertops, with multicolored neon lighting behind the bar. Ludwig found, also like many other places in the young country, that it lacked a certain atmospheric charm, but this did not bother him too terribly as he settled at his stool with a beer as the group he had arrived with looked for an empty table. Just when he was getting comfortable with the idea of losing them, and sitting at the bar by himself, his brief moment of privacy was shattered as Feliciano appeared at his side.

"You should come and sit with us, Ludwig," he said, still smiling, and apparently bursting with energy, "There's room at our table."

Ludwig cursed his luck today and, realizing that it would probably be rude to turn down the younger man's offer, allowed himself to be led over to the crowded wooden table, where some sort of commotion had already broken out among the strange group of friends.

"I'm telling you, Arthur," Antonio was saying, his tone as persuasive and as falsely disinterested as a salesman's, "He's looking right at you. You should definitely go over there."

Arthur just shook his head, "You're completely delusional."

"Aw, come on, old friend. You have to admit it's been ages since you've been with anyone. We're all worried about you."

"_I'm_ not worried," Lovino pointed out, taking a long drink from his glass as Ludwig and Feliciano were finding their seats.

Antonio ignored him, decidedly maintaining his focus on attempting to get Arthur to flirt. "Not to mention the fact that your sexual frustration is making you even more of a grouch than usual, eh? You're spreading your misery to all of us."

Arthur glared, but it was half-hearted, like he had long since resigned himself to this form of torture. In the end, he took his real revenge by not even glancing at the bar for any purpose other than to collect a continuous stream of refills from the bartender, which ultimately lead to him becoming increasingly agitated as the night wore on. Eventually, after several moments of unreasonably emotional ranting about Alfred forgetting to put his socks away, he fell asleep, with his face on the table, and drool pooling under his mouth.

"Well," Antonio, who was pretty intoxicated himself at that point, declared, after glancing at watch that he had imagined on his wrist, "I think that might've been a new record for Arthur. Very ipressvvn."

"What did you say, idiot?" Lovino asked, smirking, bad temper, if not entirely dissipated, then at least mildly suppressed by the alcohol.

"I said it's really impresamiven."

Laura laughed, "Oh, boy. I guess _I'm_ gonna be the one who carries Arthur home tonight."

But while the majority of the party had been teasing Arthur, and enjoying the spectacle which he had provided, Ludwig found himself separated from them, chair pulled to the corner of the table with Feliciano. Neither had noticed what was happening as they were slowly shifting their chairs away from the group, because both had found themselves deeply engrossed in conversation with one another. This was strange and new especially for Ludwig, who usually found himself remarkably disinterested in any form of small talk, and who preferred to limit his words to only those which he found necessary. But somehow, when Feliciano spoke, even about the mundane, scripted things that characterized conversations between almost strangers, he made everything appear so exciting and wonderful. Ludwig wondered if this was how Feliciano always saw the world.

They spoke of more than just simple matters, however. At some point, Ludwig, preferring to listen to Feliciano speak than be the speaker himself, had asked Feliciano when he had first come to America. From what he could piece together from Feli's undoubtedly sugarcoated version of things, he and his brother had come to the U.S. with their grandfather when they were toddlers. He did not mention his parents, and Ludwig didn't ask him to. Feliciano then explained him and his brother's relationship with Antonio, telling about how the older boy had lived in the same building as them throughout their childhood, and had quickly assumed the role of surrogate older brother to the two, although it sounded to Ludwig like he spent much more time with Lovino than with his younger brother. He supposed that this was because Lovino was more prone to getting himself in trouble than Feliciano, even when they were children. From what he had seen of the young Italian even in one day, Ludwig could not imagine that he would ever intentionally do something potentially harmful to anyone. He was in all likelyhood as innocent and as non-threatening as he was on the day he was born.

Eventually, Ludwig decided to ask him about the eighteen-year-old who had previously been with them. He didn't want to pry for fear of upsetting Feliciano, but his police instincts could not ignore the unpleasant suspicion he had felt when they were being introduced.

He didn't get much out of Feli, though, who seemed reluctant to say much on the subject. "Alfred started living with Arthur a few years ago," he said, suddenly looking as if he was afraid to say the wrong thing, "He was so little! He's gotten much bigger though. Even bigger than me!"

"And is Arthur a…relative of his?"

Feliciano considered this for a moment. "Um…no, that wouldn't make sense. Because Arthur is from England, and Alfred is from here."

"Of course. So why is Alfred-

"I've never been to England. Have you ever been to England, Ludwig? I hear it's very rainy all the time."

Ludwig took that as a signal to drop the subject, although he still felt uneasy, even more so after what little information Feli had given him. If what he had said was true, then Alfred couldn't have been any older than sixteen when he began living with Arthur, who was apparently not a family member of his, or, he assumed, any sort of legal guardian. Why had Alfred begun living with a strange man when he was sixteen years old? Particularly a man who was currently passed out in a pool of his own alcohol-infused saliva?

The whole story did more than just make him fear for Alfred's sake, however. It was like an alarm clock going off in Ludwig's mind, waking him up from the strange dream that he had been living ever since he had been smashed into by Lovino earlier that day. He felt apprehension course through him as he realized what should have been obvious; that he didn't know these people, that he could have been spending his night with felons and, although they didn't seem particularly dangerous, that they were people who could potentially get him in serious trouble. People who _he _could get into serious trouble.

So, after telling Feliciano a few stories about when he had gone to England before moving to New York (stories that made Feliciano laugh a tinkling laugh that made Ludwig's heart ache to think of not being able to hear it in the future), he told Feliciano that he had to work tomorrow, and so he really should be getting to bed. Feliciano insisted on walking him to his apartment building, which was not far. Ludwig couldn't help but accept.

When they arrived at the main entrance to the building, Feliciano didn't leave. Instead, he pulled something out of his pocket.

"Do you have a cell phone?" he asked sweetly.

Ludwig's mind stopped. When it started again, it went into overdrive, along with his heart, which had begun pumping madly, and his lungs, which suddenly could not receive enough oxygen from the air around him. Suddenly, here, outside of his apartment, with Feli's big brown eyes gazing up at him through the dark, the nature of his night seemed very different….

But that was a ridiculous thought. They had gotten along very well, for being complete strangers. Why wouldn't he want to contact him later on? But then, the image of Feli in a photograph, smiling just like he was now, only clad completely in women's clothes, filled his mind, and he struggled not to blush just as he had upon first seeing it. What was happening to him?

"Look," he said abruptly, struggling to meet those innocent eyes, "I…had a very good time tonight, and I'm not exactly sure what's happening, but I do know that we…it's just that, our lives, they're very different. I just don't think that…." He trailed off miserably. How could he explain this without hurting the younger man's feelings?

But Feliciano seemed to have stopped listening to him. Instead, he was looking dreamily across the street where people were still bustling about on the sidewalk, despite the late hour. Against a building, there was a man sleeping, clothes tattered, a single blanket underneath him. A dog barked somewhere nearby. The lights of the city were reflected in Feliciano's eyes.

"Antonio's sick, you know." Feli's eyes never moves from the homeless man across the street.

"I'm sorry?"

"He got sick a few years ago. Someone made him sick; I think that's part of why Lovi's so angry all the time. Toni's okay if he takes his medicine, but…."

Ludwig thought he understood. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because," Feliciano finally tore his eyes away from the street, and instead trained them on Ludwig's hopelessly lost face, "It's just that I think that, if you want to do something, then you should do it. Because you never know if something's going to happen."

And, before Ludwig could say anything, before he could even begin to form any sentences in his mind, or think about what had been said to him, Feliciano went up on his toes, and kissed him, quickly, on the mouth.

"Here," he said, and Ludwig realized that he had slipped his phone out of his pocket when he had….

He pressed a few buttons, the light from the screen lighting up his smiling face, before handing the phone back to a completely unresponsive and dumbstruck Ludwig. Then he giggled, wished Ludwig a good night, and left.

And Ludwig was left standing on the sidewalk, staring after him with the echoes of Feli's words even more than the feeling of his lips still lingering in his mind.

On the morning of July 1st, Matthew Bonnefoy awoke excitedly in his father's house in Ottowa. He shot up in his bed, looking at the blanketed expanse surrounding him as disappointment began to settle in his stomach. It was his birthday; his nineteenth, specifically, and he had expected his father to carry out a long-standing tradition of placing all of Matthew's gifts on his bed while he slept, mostly in the cruel hope that he would wake up and scatter them around his room upon waking. One year, when Matt was turning thirteen, his dad had gone so far as to place one of the packages directly on his son's face, almost giving him a heart attack when morning came around, and causing him to sulk for nearly half the day (he had been thirteen, after all).

But this morning, Matthew sighed as he looked at his empty bed, supposing that he had finally outgrown the childish tradition; he had, after all, completed his first year of college only a few months earlier.

He realized upon closer inspection, however, that there _was _something on his bed- a standard sized, red envelope with his name written in his father's neat but impractically elaborate cursive on the back.

Curious, Matthew picked up the envelope, and carefully ran a finger underneath the seal to open it. There was no card inside, like he had expected. Instead, there was simply a folded piece of standard computer paper, which Matthew unfolded. He frowned in confusion as he read the words at the top- it seemed that his father had decided to give him a printed out list of employees at a McDonald's in Manhattan's Lower East Side. Thinking there must be some strange joke being played at his expense, Matthew cautiously began to read through the short list of names.

**Michel, Joseph Roger, age 34**

**Duarte, Rosalina Adela, age 21**

**Jones, Alfred Franklin, age 18**

Matthew stopped reading, less than halfway through the list, and stared at the third name. He felt as if shock had turned his lungs into two identical vacuums. He read the name again.

_Jones, Alfred Franklin, age 18._

He had heard people in novels and on television talk about not being able to believe what they were looking at, and now he thought he understood the feeling. It was as if his mind had decided to detach from the world around it, leaving him lost. He picked up the red envelope, which was not yet entirely empty, and shook it.

Onto his bed fell two identical tickets. He picked them up, and read one of them- it was a train ticket into New York City, departing tomorrow night.

Throwing his covers aside, he grabbed the tickets and bounded outside of his bedroom, like he used to do so many years ago on snowy Christmas mornings. He found his father in the kitchen, preparing a traditional stack of Birthday Pancakes. The man jumped in shock when Matthew threw his arms around him from behind, struggling to speak words of gratitude through the choked feeling in his throat.

"_Papa, merci, c'est le meilleur cadeau…je ne sais pas quoi dire. Merci beaucoup _!"

His dad laughed, spinning to face his son and hug him properly. "_Bon anniversaire, mon_ _petite fils._ And what did I tell you about speaking English, now that we live in Ontario?"

Matthew still seemed at a loss for words; whether the words were English or French held no consequence. Francis Bonnefoy felt the excitement and disbelief radiating from his son, and decided to bring a bit of reality back to the situation.

"Now, Matthew," he said, allowing a bit of sternness into his tone, "I don't want you to get your hopes up too high. We only have his first name and middle name, and his age. There is no guarantee that this is your brother."

"I know, Papa. But still…it must have taken you so long."

Francis smiled, "It has taken me thirteen years, Matthew. It has been too long that my mistake has hurt you. You have no reason to thank me for this."

"It wasn't your fault."

His father didn't respond to that, only continued to smile as he said, "Well, I suppose we should begin packing, then!"

Matthew beamed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, a hope that he had not felt in years beginning to well up inside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: **Hello! So one thing that I didn't mention on the last chapter is that this story is actually already posted with a few chapters on AO3: /works/918107. I'm going to keep posting on both sites, but the next couple of updates will be unnaturally fast (because they're actually already written). Sorry I didn't mention this before, but I was really just testing the waters on FF and wanted to get the first chapter out there.

That being said, thank you to anyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited! It's very much appreciated, and I hope you all enjoy the next chapter. (:

(I also would like to apologize for my French whenever it appears. I am oh so sorry.)

**Chapter 2**

Once his legs had carried him to the door of the ridiculously ordinary looking McDonald's, at the corner of East 6th Street and First Avenue, just like the piece of paper clenched in his sweating fist instructed, Francis Bonnefoy felt himself hesitate. He glanced up at the insignia; just as looming and obnoxiously yellow as it was in probably every other populated corner of the planet. There were McDonalds' everywhere, so much so that it seemed almost as if they were following Francis throughout his life, wherever he went- there were McDonalds' in France, in Quebec, in Ontario, in absolutely every country that he had ever visited on a business trip- always altered in whatever way necessary to somewhat awkwardly conform to its host country, but always managing to remain glaringly American, like trying to cover a bonfire with a blanket. Looking at the sign in any other country than America, Francis thought that he might have known what people living in British colonies had felt upon looking at the many union jacks spread across their homelands. They were an ever-present sign of global, American occupation.

Francis had never imagined, however, that something as commonplace as a McDonald's would hold such significance in his life. But, here he was, nervous, _terrified_, standing outside of the cursed establishment at six in the goddamn morning, while his Matthew still slept away in their hotel room to make up for a night of travel, in hope and in ignorance, and all because Francis was a horrible coward. Because, after all these years of guilt, he simply could not risk seeing the look of disappointment on his beloved son's face if it turned out that he had failed yet again. And so, he had decided to assess the situation beforehand, on his own.

_Alfred Franklin_. The name fluttered around in Francis's mind, taunting him, just as it had taunted him for the past thirteen years. As it had almost every day since he and Marianne had all but dragged a screaming, crying Matthew away from that horrible place, and oh, how could they not have known, how could they not have realized that something was so, incredibly wrong? Surely, had they known Matthew, if they had had more time to understand him as Francis does now- surely, they would have known immediately. Because, since that day, Francis had never once heard the quiet boy scream.

Francis felt cold and sick at the vivid memory, the familiar guilt attempting to crush him once again. He had never known Alfred Franklin, had never even laid eyes on him, and yet his existence had had more of an impact on Francis's life than almost all of the people he had ever met in person put together. To Francis, Alfred was a phantom, not made of flesh and bone but of rage and fear and sadness and regret. The idea that he might now become real was somehow strangely terrifying to the Frenchman.

All of this was filling his mind as he forced himself into the threatening establishment, hardly knowing what to think, or what to hope for.

It was crowded, to Francis's slight annoyance. He supposed that many people were in a hurry to grab their morning jolt before work, but waiting in the long line proved absolute torture for his already fraying nerves. He wrung his hands as he impatiently waited his turn, ears deaf to the sounds of people shouting orders in English and Spanish, nose deaf to the smell of coffee and breakfast and morning.

There was a young woman working at the counter when Francis was finally able to reach it. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked efficiently, her English accented but entirely understandable.

Francis wondered how he should handle this. "Actually," he said, attempting to use some of his natural charm to not seem like he was wasting everyone's time, "I was just wondering if there was an Alfred Jones working here today?"

He had expected the girl to act as least marginally suspicious at the request, but she didn't miss a beat. "Alfred!" she called over her shoulder, waving Francis to the side so that she could help the next customer, "Get out here!"

"Why?!" A voice answered from the kitchen. Francis swallowed. While he had hoped to gain some information on the mysterious entity that was Alfred Franklin Jones by visiting his workplace, he had not been entirely prepared to see him, in the flesh, so soon.

"Some blond guy with an accent's asking for you!" The girl shouted.

A loud groan, as if Alfred had been expecting this very answer. "Tell him to go away!"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Just give me one moment," she told Francis, before walking towards the source of the voice. Francis strained his ears to hear what was happening over the din.

"Stop being difficult. He's holding everyone up. And how many times have I told you not to steal from the french-fries?"

"Aw, but _Rosa…." _

"Go_._ _Now_."

The girl reappeared.

And so did Alfred.

"Jesus Arthur, I'm working, what d'you…oh. You're not Arthur."

Francis couldn't respond to this statement, or even wonder what it was referring to. He was too busy staring in astonishment at the boy in front of him. The same blue eyes covered by slightly rounder glasses, slightly shorter dirty blond hair that poked out over the rim of his McDonald's visor, a bit more well-muscled than Matthew. But…it was almost exactly as if he were looking at his son.

Alfred, meanwhile, was beginning to feel uneasy about the complete stranger who had asked for him by name, and who was now staring at him like he was the most remarkable (or terrible) thing that he had ever seen. "So, um," he asked awkwardly, "Is there, like, something I can help you with?"

Francis fought the dryness in his throat. "You are Alfred Jones." It wasn't a question.

"Uh, yup! That's me!" Alfred smiled a bit, confusion and slight suspicion obvious in his expressions.

"Well, I was…I was actually hoping that we could have a word in private, if that wouldn't be too much trouble."

Alfred's face became suddenly serious as an idea rose in his mind, and he leaned in close to Francis in a poor attempt at discretion. "Look, dude, I don't, you know, _turn tricks_, if that's what you're lookin' for."

Francis took a second to digest this, and then flung himself backwards in complete horror. "What? Mon _Dieu,_ of course I wasn't -I would _never…_ How could you…do I look like I would ever _need_ to…." But Alfred just continued to watch him evenly, so he attempted to gather his thoughts after the insulting suggestion. He cleared his throat. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy," he said, trying to clear his name as quickly and efficiently as possible, "And I am Matthew Bonnef-well, that is to say, Matthew _Williams' _adoptive father."

Silence.

Alfred gaped at him, lips parted, barely blinking. While he had been taking the encounter lightly, like an idle chat with a stranger on a bus, he now wore an expression that would have been appropriate on someone who was watching their house burn down, or seeing their newborn child for the first time- completely blank, if only because there was no appropriate facial expression for moments of such untellable significance. Francis felt it, too, and the importance of the moment hung between them, the grease-scented air around them buzzing, saturated with the energy of life-changing moments. In that instant, understanding passed between the two strangers, as they both allowed themselves to sink into the intoxicating feeling of their own histories changing. Francis wondered why he had been nervous stepping into this building. Alfred wondered how he could ever have imagined upon waking that this day would be a normal one.

The moment was brief. After its passing, Alfred looked around himself, as if making sure that no spies where waiting to catch moments of their conversation.

"Gimme a second." Alfred dashed back into the kitchen. To Francis's utter amazement, he returned a brief moment later with a handful of "French-fries". Then he jogged to the end of the counter, eating as he went.

"Alfred, just what the fuck do you think you're doing?" His coworker asked impatiently, but he was already on the other side, standing next to Francis.

"Just a minute, Rosa! It's really really important. I promise!" She glared at him, but said nothing save for a bit of mumbling under her breath.

"Here," Alfred said to Francis, directing him to the nearest empty booth, still munching on fried potatoes. They sat down on opposite sides of the table, Alfred staring at Francis with wide blue eyes. "So," he started uncertainly, still wearing that lost 'My house is on fire' face, "You're…I mean…."

"Your brother's father. Yes."

Alfred glanced down at the table, suddenly taking on a much more serious and hardened persona than what had been Francis' first impression of the boy. Francis thought to himself that he looked even more like Matthew, now, when he had still been a shy and suspicious child who hid behind his mother's leg in the midst of strangers. When he spoke, his voice was level, but with emotion broiling underneath, as if he were attempting to distance himself from it.

"Why should I believe you?"

Francis was prepared for this. Without saying a word, he reached into his front pocket (he almost always wore a suit; he always wanted to look good, practical or not) and pulled out a black leather wallet, which he then slid gently across the table to Alfred.

Alfred took it and, after a subtle nod from Francis, unfolded it, and stared with growing emotion at its contents. Francis smiled, knowing what Alfred was seeing; it was filled with half a dozen photographs, from corny, posed family photos from when Matthew was still young and round and wide-eyed, to his first hockey match, to his senior high school portrait.

Alfred swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. It took him a moment to find his voice and, when he did speak, it was as if the words were being torn unwillingly from his throat.

"Oh my god. It's…." He glanced, bewildered, up from the wallet, to gaze at Francis with wide, bright eyes. Francis noticed that the hand in which the boy held the wallet was shaking, and smiled kindly at Alfred, suddenly glad that he had chosen to give the poor boy a bit of warning before Matthew suddenly reappeared in his life. Francis took his wallet back gently, as Alfred continued to stammer hopelessly.

"I didn't even…I mean, I thought that…." Alfred closed his eyes briefly, and, taking a deep breath, attempted to arrange his thoughts in his head, feeling suddenly that it was very important that he express them correctly to the man seated across from him. When he opened them and began to speak, both his eyes and his words caused Francis to choke inwardly with fear and pain, as if they were knives that Alfred was holding against his throat. He felt the smile fade slowly from his face as Alfred spoke, and he came face to face with his worst fears. "You took him. I was so young, and he just disappeared; I thought he was dead for years. But…you took him."

Francis attempted to swallow, if only to give himself some time to think of a proper response (if there was one) to Alfred's realization, but his mouth was far too dry to force the muscles into motion. When he did speak, his voice was rasping, and he decided to go with the most honest thing that he could say.

"I am very sorry."

Alfred continued to stare, but he didn't appear to be regarding Francis with any anger. Rather, it was if he was searching for something; like he was lost in the woods, and the only map of how to find his way home was written somewhere on Francis's face. Unnerved by his gaze, Francis made a desperate attempt to rescue himself.

"I had no idea. They did not tell me that you even existed."

Alfred looked down at the photographs once more, still in a state of shock.

"And you…took care of him?"

Francis let out a hot puff of air, and felt his smile return slightly. "Yes," he assured Alfred gently, "Of course. It took a while, but he warmed up to us eventually. He is doing very well. He is in university now, studying to be a teacher." Francis wondered if Alfred could hear the pride in his voice as he spoke of his only son.

Alfred continued to examine the photographs, trying to figure out what questions to ask. Eventually, he leaned in towards Francis, pointing to one of the older photographs at a dark-haired woman who was holding a smiling young Matthew on her lap. "Is this your wife?" he asked. Francis nodded. Alfred was gaining a kind of strange emotional momentum as he continued to ask questions, the beginnings of snowballing enthusiasm glinting in his eyes.

"Is she here, too? Can I meet her?" he looked around the restaurant, as if he would find her hiding in one of the booths, waiting to jump out and surprise him. Francis's smile never wavered.

"Unfortunately, Marianne passed away several years ago."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It is not a problem. You may ask whatever questions you need to."

Alfred stilled, and Francis imagined he could feel the energy and emotion radiating from him in a continuous hum. "When can I see him?"

"Very soon. He is asleep in our hotel, at the moment. But I am sure he will be just as eager to meet you."

"I'm not _meeting _him. He's my _brother."_

"Of course."

Instead of continuing the conversation, Alfred suddenly grabbed the pen that had been resting in the front pocket of his horrendous brown and yellow uniform, and then a napkin from the little kiosk in the middle of the table. He quickly scrawled something down on the napkin, before handing it over to Francis.

"That's my address. My shift ends at twelve. If I'm not back yet when you get there, ask for Arthur. He'll buzz you in."

Francis examined the paper in his hands. "You have your own apartment? That must be very expensive for a college student."

Alfred blinked a few times, like someone had just slapped him unexpectedly. In his mind, a very dangerous and panic-induced set of thoughts was occurring, the thoughts that Arthur and everyone else who was close to Alfred had become quite familiar with- namely, the ones that were always making Alfred say incredibly, remarkably stupid things. It was these thoughts which prompted him to speak his next, fateful sentence.

"Uh…yeah."

Francis raised an eyebrow, wondering if Alfred was going to continue.

"I mean, Arthur and I, we both work a lot, and the apartment's kind of crappy. It's like, above this old furniture store that's open all night and smells really funny, and there's not even any A.C., and the plumbing's weird so only one of us can shower a day or the pipes make all these scary noises that I always think are ghosts, so-

"Yes, of course. And I imagine your parents help out a little, as well." Francis deliberately hesitated on the word "parents", trying to avoid being insensitive, but also making an effort to retrieve as much information as possible about Alfred's situation.

"My…oh. Yeah, sure they do." Even as Alfred mentally berated himself, thinking regretfully about the enormous grave which he was currently digging for himself in the future, he could not stop the words from falling from his mouth. Francis, however, sighed in relief.

"Well I, um," Alfred continued, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for this conversation to be very much over, "I should probably get back to work now. You know, the burgers, they need to be…flipped."

"Of course," Francis held out a slender hand to Alfred, still smiling his best non-threatening smile to try and make Alfred feel comfortable, "May I have my wallet back now?"

"Oh!" Alfred rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Right, sure." But then he hesitated. "Um, do you think I could hold on to one of these pictures?" he asked impulsively.

To Alfred's embarrassment, Francis sounded a bit choked when he answered. "Yes, yes. Take whatever you like-I have copies."

Alfred scanned the photos a second time and quickly made his selection. It was one of the few from when Mattie was still really little, still almost exactly as Alfred remembered him. There was no one else in the picture save for a stuffed polar bear, which appeared much larger than it actually was compared to the young boy's small form.

Alfred noted, with mixed feelings, that his brother looked remarkably happy in the photo. He handed the wallet back to Francis, who had been watching him carefully as he chose. He smiled when he saw what photo was missing.

"He loved that bear. His mother gave it to him."

"His moth…" Alfred felt a shock run through him, which quickly dissipated and was replaced by embarrassment as he realized what Francis had meant. "Oh. You're wife."

Francis felt as if he had made a terrible mistake as he saw the look on Alfred's face. "I'm sorry," he said desperately, "I know this must be a lot to take in. I will leave you alone for a while, ok? And then you will be able to see Matthew in person."

Alfred nodded numbly, still holding the picture out in front of him as Francis got up and left the restaurant. Then, sighing with emotional exhaustion, he stuck it in one of his pockets and darted out of the booth.

He needed to make an emergency phone call.

"Alfred, this had better be really bloody important."

"How did you know it was me?" Alfred asked from the staff phone in the back of the McDonald's. Between the two of them, Arthur and Alfred shared Arthur's cell phone, which usually stayed with whoever was at the apartment, which didn't have a landline.

Alfred heard something that sounded suspiciously like a growl coming from the other end, "Because you're the only person who is so intent on ruining my life that they would wake me up at six in the bloody fucking morning with pointless phone calls."

"It's not pointless! It's really important."

Arthur let out an aggravated sigh, and Alfred imagined he could hear the older man pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Speak very. Quickly."

"Oh, um, okay. So I was working and then Rosa called for me and told me there was a guy with an accent asking for me and I thought it was you but it was this other guy and he was dressed all fancy and he kept staring at me and for a second I thought he wanted to-

"Alfred."

"Yeah?"

"_Much_ more quickly."

Alfred took a deep breath, wondering how he should phrase this. He eventually settled on his preferred method, which was to blurt out whichever words popped into his mind most aggressively.

"My brother's here."

"What_?"_

"My twin brother, Matthew, and his adopted dad. They're here, in New York."

"I…"

"And they're coming to the apartment at noon so I can see him, and, I'm sort of freaking out right now."

"_What?"_

"And they think that we're both college students. Oh, and that I was adopted, too, I guess."

"…."

"…Arthur? You still there?"

"And is there anything _else _you need to tell me?" Alfred physically cringed away from the phone at how livid Arthur sounded.

"Well..."

"For the love of God, Alfred, what is it?"

"I think his dad's French. Does that mean that Matt's French too, now, or-

The line went dead.

Arthur kept up a continuous stream of furious mumbling under his breath as he feverishly attempted to make his apartment look presentable.

"But really, why would he invite them to come _here?_" he griped, hands forming frustrated fists into his light blond hair as he surveyed the horrendous mess that surrounded him, an endless ocean of dirty clothes and broken C.D. cases and empty bags of McDonald's and depleted bottles of liquor. Before Alfred (because that's how Arthur's life in America was organized in his mind, now, into two very different sections entitled 'before' and 'after', like Alfred's appearance was something akin to the birth of Christ, or the fall of the Roman Empire), Arthur had prided himself in dutifully avoiding the stereotype of a messy "Bachelor Pad", finding it easy enough to keep his living space tidy when he had been the only body inhabiting it. But Alfred was a terrible slob, and as the years went by Arthur had slowly given up trying to get him to clean up after himself, and surrendered himself to his roommate's slovenly lifestyle. Now, as Arthur stared dismally at the disastrous results of his neglect, he could not help feeling that his life had finally spiraled completely out of his control.

He continued to mutter to himself as he picked up a t-shirt that, judging by its size, belonged to Alfred, cringing in disgust at the smell. "Should've made him do this ages ago, bloody slob…."

By the time Arthur could see the floor of the main room, it was already close to noon, and he found himself faced with other concerns as he waited anxiously for Alfred to come home. Besides worrying that they didn't have any food, and that the only place to sit in the apartment was the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor that they used for watching movies and playing videogames on the Xbox 360 that Kiku had gotten Alfred on his birthday last year, Arthur was starting to wonder how this encounter would ultimately play out. Despite being the person closest to Alfred for the past three years, it had always been difficult to extract details of his past, and Arthur, always secretive himself, had never been terribly motivated to go fishing in that particular pool of emotional baggage. Most of what he had learned was either pieces of information necessary to keep Alfred healthy and safe, or snatches of memory that had slipped out over time, most often after Alfred had one of his nightmares.

But while he might not know all of the details, Arthur knew that there were things in Alfred's past that he wanted to forget, things that still haunted him, and things that could very well be buried deep down, just waiting for some significant event to spring out from behind the bushes and turn him into someone that Arthur didn't even know. And, despite the way he acted towards him, Arthur did care very much about Alfred- enough to be wary of virtual strangers who appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be his family. In fact, Arthur was beginning to feel a bit personally offended by these claims, as ridiculous as he knew that was. Because, despite what DNA might be shared between Alfred and his brother, it was Arthur who considered himself, more or less, to be Alfred's only family. He was, after all, the one who had rescued him; _he_ was the one who took him off the streets, and _he _was the one who kept him sober, and _he _was the one who sold his drum set so that Alfred would have clothes and food and anything else that he needed. And where had these people been, anyway, when Alfred was alone, and young, and suffering? Maybe, had they decided to show up sooner, then Alfred wouldn't have had to go through what he did when he was younger.

And, if that was true, then Arthur wasn't sure if he was ready to forgive them so easily.

Just then, a buzzing sound came from the appliance on the wall near the door, and Arthur shook himself from his thoughts to answer it, desperately hoping that it was Alfred returning from work. He held finger down on the button as he spoke into the machine. "Alfred?" he asked hesitantly. His heart sunk when he heard an unfamiliar voice emitting from the speaker.

"No, I'm sorry, this is Francis Bonnefoy. Did Alfred tell you that we would be coming?"

Arthur sighed, closing his eyes, and fought the urge to run his forehead into the wall. He cleared his throat nervously before answering, "Oh, ah, yes. He did. Um…come right up."

After a few minutes of standing in the kitchen area, drumming his fingers on the countertop and pinching the soft skin of his lower lip between his teeth, Arthur heard a soft rapping on the door. He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and strode over to the door, which he opened wide in one, quick motion.

"Hello," said the man standing in the doorway. "You must be Arthur. It is nice to meet you."

Arthur's first impression of the man in front of him was that he didn't look like he belonged in the real world, but rather on the cover of some cheesy romance novel; his shiny, long blond hair, slight stubble, and expensive-looking attire all gave Arthur an impression of roses and beautiful sunsets on idyllic beaches with doves flying all around. He wondered how this man could have a child as old as Alfred- he didn't appear to be a day over thirty.

He realized that the man was holding out his hand, and shook it, deciding with a second glance that this man looked rich and absurd and that he didn't like him. He could be polite when he needed to be, however, and he swallowed his thoughts as he spoke.

"It's nice to meet you too."

Francis nodded as if Arthur had answered a question, "And this is my son, Matthew."

Arthur jumped a bit, startled, as Francis moved to the side a little to reveal a second person standing in the doorway. Arthur wondered if the boy had been standing there the entire time.

"Hi," the boy said to Arthur, fidgeting nervously.

"Hello." Arthur replied, examining the boy's face, "Christ. But you don't half look like Alfred."

Matthew shrugged, smiling a little, "Well, we are identical twins, so…."

"Right. So, um, would you like to come in? We don't really have any, uh…chairs….."

Francis chuckled a little as he stepped over the threshold. He gave Matthew a slight nod of encouragement as he did so, noticing that his shy son was still standing nervously in the doorway, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans.

"Do not worry about it," he said, addressing Arthur warmly, "I know how it can be when you are in university. You should see Matthew's dorm room."

Matthew pouted, embarrassed. "It's not that bad," he mumbled, so quietly that it was almost unintelligible.

Arthur, too, was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable (and also quite insulted that his apartment was being compared to a dorm room) and attempted to steer the conversation away from his supposed pursuit of higher education. "Alfred should be here soon."

"There is no rush," Francis assured. Arthur suddenly felt eyes on him, and turned his attention to Matthew, who was examining him closely. For the first time in his life, Arthur found himself thanking his genetics for the youthful looks that had earned him the upsetting label of "twink" in the workplace. If he had really looked like a twenty-six year old man, Alfred's ridiculous story would have been even harder to maintain.

Meanwhile, the three of them were still standing, staring at each other, all unsure of how to proceed. In the absence of the person who had brought them all together, the small room seemed slightly cavernous; empty and silent. Matthew, nervous and uncomfortable, coughed even though he didn't need to, like he always did when faced with difficult social situations. Francis, worried about his son and increasingly hot and sweaty in his fancy suit, tried with all of his might to suppress the urge to stare at Arthur's cute freckles and green eyes.

"Would you like some tea?" Arthur asked his guests compulsively, wanting to break the stifling silence.

"Some water would be lovely, if it's not too much trouble." And Francis had to swallow a lump of saliva as he watched Arthur turn around and walk towards a kitchen cabinet, giving Francis a lovely view of his ass in some _very _tight jeans, as well as a sudden, newfound appreciation for the "punk" trend. He cursed his notorious libido as Alfred's roommate reached upwards to search for a glass in one of the kitchen cabinets, exposing a small strip of pale skin between where his shirt ended and his pants began. He looked away as Arthur closed the cabinet and turned back towards Francis with a frustrated sigh, repeating a mantra of _he is probably the same age as Matthew, dépraver _in his mind.

"We don't have any glasses." Arthur stated dejectedly, his tone resembling that of a broken man.

Francis snapped resurfaced from his depraved thoughts long enough to answer. "It is no problem, really. Right, Matthew?"

"Huh?" Matthew had not been paying attention to Arthur's and Francis's strained exchanges, opting instead to finding a seat on the floor among the pillows, all the while taking in the science magazines, Japanese videogames, classic novels and (he noticed with some amusement) several seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD, that were all scattered in haphazard piles around the apartment. And, even as Matthew smiled at all of these things, he couldn't help but wonder if he even knew, after thirteen years, who Alfred was now.

It was with this thought in his head that Matthew heard the series of clicking sounds that indicated an opening door. All heads in the room turned toward it, and Matthew shot up from his seat on the floor. It felt to Matthew that, the moment Alfred stepped over the threshold, the stale atmosphere of the room shattered, like ice suddenly giving way underneath someone and introducing them to the cold, quiet world beneath.

"Well, it's about bloody time," Arthur, not sensing this monumental change, said irritably, crossing his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.

But Alfred was much too busy staring at the boy who was standing in his apartment to do anything other than ignore his roommate. He remained in the same spot for several moments, eyes staring blankly as his mind attempted to process who was finally in front of him. Matthew did much the same, but was the first to break the electric silence.

"Alfred." He said, the word riding on an amazed breath, before his face broke into a warm, astonished smile. Then he ran to Alfred, and as he received his brother with his arms, Alfred laughed.

"Oh my God, _Mattie!__**" **_ He exclaimed, exuberant laugher still in his voice even as it cracked slightly on his brother's name. They embraced each other tightly, with Alfred lifting Matthew slightly off of his feet, and both were ecstatic and relieved to find that it did not feel at all like hugging a stranger, even if maybe it should have after so much time. When the two broke their embrace, they remained connected by touch, with Alfred placing his hands on the sides of Matthew's now red and tear-streaked face, taking in every inch.

"Shit," he choked out, still smiling widely, "I forgot how weird it feels to be around someone who looks just like you."

Matthew laughed through his tears. "Alfred…." And they embraced again, not wanting the moment that belonged to only them to end.

"Sorry I smell like burgers."

"That's okay." Matthew's quiet voice was muffled in Alfred's shoulder.

Francis and Arthur, who had both taken notice of the fact that they were currently on the outside of Alfred and Matthew's small world, watched the scene quietly, not wanting to disrupt what felt to all of them like a sacred moment. Francis kept his eyes glued on the twins as he felt a small, relieved smile growing on his face, and even Arthur could not pretend that he was unhappy to see Alfred smile so brightly and honestly. In fact, the sight filled his generally untouchable heart with radiant warmth.

The room had become quiet again, despite the sounds of the city drifting through the open window. But the silence was not empty, this time; it was bursting at the seams, a blessed and beautiful stillness that enveloped them all with a feeling of peace and security and love.

After several moments in which the hush was only broken by the sounds of the boys sniffling, the two separated. Alfred patted Matthew on the back gruffly, and took off his glasses to hastily wipe away his tears, embarrassed; Matthew gave one last sniffle. Then they both turned to look at Francis and Arthur, both still beaming, but both unsure of what to do or say next.

Arthur was the first one to say anything, and he did so with the same amazement and incredulity that was written in his facial expression, but also with hesitancy to be the official end to the moment. "I can't believe you found him," he said, shaking his head slightly, "You were separated thirteen years ago, right? You were six years old."

Alfred swallowed, still smiling shakily, "Yeah." He slung his arm around Matthew's shoulders, their eyes meeting again briefly.

Arthur continued to shake his head, "Christ."

After that, Francis simply could not hold back his joy any longer. Grinning from ear to ear, he clapped his hands together in one swift motion. "Well," he declared, "I am sure you two have a lot of catching up to do, non? Why don't we all go somewhere nice for lunch? It will be on me."

But Alfred became nervous at the man's suggestion, and he met Arthur's eyes from across the room, alarmed. "Uh…catching up?"

"Yeah!" Matthew chirped, breaking away from Alfred, who had still had his arm resting on his shoulders, "I mean, I feel like I don't know anything about you. I want you to tell me everything!"

"…Everything?" Alfred hoped that it wasn't too obvious that he was now full-on panicking, but apparently it was at least to Arthur, who interjected quickly.

"That's very nice of you, but we couldn't let you take us out to lunch."

Francis quickly waved away the complaint, "Nonsense! I am sure you rarely get to eat good food, living on your own like this. It is not a problem at all, I assure you."

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, "Well, I mean, I can sort of cook some things," he babbled, "Like, uh, eggs. And macaroni. Oh, and s'mores pizzas. So, you know, we do pretty ok."

"What are s'mores pizzas?" Matthew asked with genuine curiosity.

Arthur huffed, "You really don't want to know."

"Aw, c'mon. You know you like them."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

But Francis just continued to smile, "It really is not a problem at all. We would love for you to come with us." Matthew nodded in agreement.

"Maybe another time," Arthur said, still trying to communicate with Alfred through nothing but small glances, "Alfred and I actually have to work this afternoon. Right, Alfred?"

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. You know how it is. Work, work, work."

Francis frowned, now slightly suspicious, "Yes, I see. And where else do you work?"

"…A coffee shop." Alfred said, acting on the first thing that came into his mind.

Francis raised an eyebrow, "Both of you?"

"…Uh-huh."

Matthew, meanwhile, was shifting his still slightly wet gaze between Arthur and Alfred, suddenly looking a little dejected despite the still lingering bliss from just moments earlier. "But," he said softly, sounding a bit puzzled, "It's just, I thought that, when we got here, we would…I don't know. Talk, I guess." He fidgeted uncomfortably, trying not to show his disappointment too obviously. Seeing the expression on his brother's face, Alfred sighed guiltily, wanting nothing more than anything to accept their offer and spend the rest of the day making up for years of lost time with Matthew.

He gave Matthew a sympathetic look as he spoke. "We will talk!" he said as cheerfully as possible, attempting to reassure him, "We'll talk loads! Look…tomorrow's the Fourth of July, right? So we can spend the whole day having fun and showing you around and stuff."

Matthew brightened, "That sounds fun." He said with a shy smile.

Francis took a few steps towards his son, allowing a hand to fall gently on one of the boy's shoulders. "It sounds wonderful. And there is no worry about time- my work is very flexible, so we can stay as long as you both want."

The boys both beamed, and luckily no one but Alfred noticed Arthur's slightly pained expression as he continued to lean on the kitchen counter. Choosing to ignore this, Alfred suddenly gasped as he had a sudden realization.

"And you can come to my birthday party tomorrow!" he exclaimed, ecstatic. Arthur's eyes widened and he sent Alfred a furious look, but still no one paid him any attention. Instead, Alfred gasped again as another thought hit him, "And it can be Mattie's party, too!"

Matthew laughed lightly, "Even though our birthday was on Monday?"

Alfred somehow managed to choke a bit on his own saliva. "Y-yeah. Monday. The first. Right." He gave a nervous chuckle, "I just like the fireworks," he explained somewhat lamely, but Matthew nodded in understanding.

After that, things became a bit quiet again, and after a moment, Arthur took the opportunity to begin to casually lead their two guests towards the door. "I'm sorry, but we really should be getting ready for work," he said, tone anything but apologetic. Matthew and Francis expressed their understanding, satisfied with the next day's plans. Then there was a bit of exchanging of phone numbers and, before they left, Matthew gave Alfred one last, small hug.

"See you tomorrow." He said, and Alfred grinned broadly at the promise.

"Yeah. See you."

When they walked out the door, Alfred stood staring at it for a moment after, taking some time to allow everything that had happened that day to sink in. Without realizing it, he had still been grinning broadly, and he had to make a conscious effort to allow his facial muscles to relax as he became aware of the growing soreness in his cheeks.

Arthur, meanwhile, was not sharing in Arthur's giddiness. He sighed, displeased, and walked over to where Alfred had finally turned away from the door, and fixing him with a glare that Alfred recognized immediately.

"Arthur," he said cautiously, ready to defend himself. Arthur just continued to step slowly closer to Alfred, gaze still holding the promise of a good and proper scolding.

"Do you realize what you've done, Alfred?"

"Uh…."

"You have invited two people who you have decided to _lie to_ about your entire existence to a party with _all of our friends."_

Alfred was confused, like he usually was when Arthur was angry at him, as to what exactly he'd done wrong. However, he attempted to defend himself anyway, "I panicked, okay? They were gonna take us out to lunch and ask us where we go to college and what we're majoring in and what my parents' names are! There's no way I could've handled that!"

Arthur was now standing threateningly close to Alfred, and he looked like he was a moment away from pointing an angry finger in Alfred's face. "Couldn't you have thought of all that while you were working? Jesus, Alfred, I knew you were thick, but I didn't think that flipping burgers actually required_ all_ of your mental capacity."

Alfred's ears reddened at the insult, and he looked down at his feet, "I was thinking about other things, okay? This is…" he made a frustrated sound and rubbed his hands over his face, allowing his fingertips to slide under the frames of his glasses, "This is all just really weird. It all happened so fast."

Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and attempted not to feel guilty about his insensitivity. Still, he took on a noticeably more sympathetic tone as he spoke, "I know, Alfred. It's just, I'm a bit worried about having all of them over here. Do you really think that, say, _Feliciano, _most likely under the influence of alcohol, will be able to keep all of your secrets for an entire night?"

Alfred's eyes widened in sudden comprehension, "Oh…_oh. _Fuck."

"Yes. '_Fuck'_."

They stared at each other briefly, a grim atmosphere suddenly overtaking the room as the enormity of the problem sunk in. After a moment, Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly, as if challenging Alfred to clean up his mistake. "Well, it should certainly be an interesting birthday, if nothing else."

And Alfred smiled sheepishly, knowing by the tone of Arthur's voice that he had been forgiven.

_Alfred was in pain. He wasn't sure where he was, or what was happening, but he knew that there were parts of his body that stung and parts of it that ached, and that he was hiding somewhere small and dark. His head throbbed unpleasantly, and he wondered if he had a concussion, and if that was why he couldn't remember what was happening. He was afraid, and it was as if the overwhelming amounts of pain and fear were overriding his ability to think, because he could not remember how he had landed in this situation, or what he was afraid of. All that he knew as that he needed to keep hiding. He knew that he couldn't make a sound, even though he was crying, and it was a constant struggle to keep his sobs from breaking free of his vocal chords. His body shook with the effort of holding them back as he lifted a hand to his mouth and bit it hard enough to leave marks on his small, soft hand._

_A cold shock ran through Alfred's body as he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, and he closed his eyes tightly, thinking that maybe if he tried hard enough, he could transport himself away from that place, to somewhere bright and sunny and safe. But when he peeked an eye open to see if it had worked, his body hadn't moved, and he could now see the outline of large feet coming towards his hiding place. Now trembling intensely, Alfred removed his hand from his mouth, and allowed the sobs that had been building up within him to wrench themselves painfully from his body, knowing that there was no point in being quiet, that he had already been found…._

"Alfred. Hey, Alfred, wake up. It's alright, love. Come on now. You're alright." Alfred felt a warm hand on his shoulder as he found himself still in the dark, struggling to breathe. Gasping, he realized that his eyes were closed, and it took a moment to remember how to open them. When he did, he looked around himself, struggling to get his bearings.

Arthur was there, kneeling at the side of their futon, still in his day clothes. His green eyes glinted in the minimal light that was coming from the main room as they gazed down at Alfred with intense worry. Alfred blinked up at him a few times, before sitting up in bed with a groan. His whole body felt hot, and sticky with sweat.

Arthur examined his roommate's face with concern. "Do you want me to get you some water?" he asked gently, knowing from experience that Alfred would turn down an offer for tea. Alfred nodded slightly, not looking at Arthur, and Arthur stood up and walked out the door, leaving it open. As he waited, listening to the sounds of Arthur busying himself in the kitchen, he gazed out of the small bedroom window, attempting to pull himself out of his confusion by taking in his surroundings. From his bed, he watched the lights of the city and listened to its many sounds, feeling a sudden wave of affection for his very distinctive and recognizable home.

When Arthur returned, he had a tall glass of water in his hand. He kneeled down again, handing the glass to Alfred, who began to chug it down immediately.

"Thanks." He said gruffly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he stared at the glass he was holding. "Since when do we have glasses?"

Arthur shrugged. "I went out and bought some earlier." He explained.

Alfred just sighed in response, feeling himself beginning to calm down, even though his heart was still hammering in his chest. Arthur continued to watch him.

"That hasn't happened in a while, has it?"

Alfred shrugged, knowing that his dreams had not stopped occurring, but that Arthur had just not been around to notice them. This one had been particularly vivid, however, and Alfred found himself feeling very grateful that his friend had come home at the right time.

"You think it has something to do with seeing Matthew again?"

Alfred shook his head, "I don't think so." Arthur just nodded, and stood up to go look though the piles of clothes on their floor for pajamas. Once he had changed into his red and white checkered pants and Sex Pistols t-shirt, he walked over to the futon and lifted up the single blanket that had been covering Alfred.

"Scoot," he ordered, and Alfred slid over to make room. When Arthur joined him in the bed, there was no way for Alfred to hide the fact that he was still shaking slightly. Arthur sighed as he noticed this, and turned over to his side. "Come here, idiot." He muttered, and Alfred instinctively slid into his friend's arms, allowing his head to rest on Arthur's small shoulder. Any embarrassment that Alfred had felt at being held by Arthur had faded long ago, and he simply allowed himself to enjoy how the embrace quickly cleansed him of all of his lingering fears, like feeling the chills be expelled from his body after sinking into hot water. He simply sighed into Arthur's shoulder as his breathing became slow and even, and they both drifted off into calm, deep sleep.

The next day went by in a fast, confusing blur. To his complete devastation, Alfred noticed immediately upon waking that the sky had taken on a dull grey hue, and that a feeling of potential rain was hanging heavily in the air. He spent the entire time that he and Arthur were waiting for Francis and Matthew to arrive complaining loudly about how his birthday was ruined and how God obviously hated him. Arthur was unsympathetic.

"You're unbelievable." He mumbled as they both puttered around the apartment somewhat nervously, "Your long lost brother shows up out of nowhere, and you're reunited with the only family you've ever had against all odds, and then you act like your whole life is ruined because you might not get to see fireworks on the Fourth of July."

Alfred pouted, "But that's the problem! We were all supposed to watch them together!" Then his eyes widened in horror as a thought stuck him, "What if this is, like, an omen or something?"

Arthur crossed his arms and glared up at Alfred with distain.

"No, seriously! What if this means that something horrible is going to happen and Mattie's gonna leave and I'll never see him again ever and-

"Alfred, relax. He's spent more than half his life trying to find you. He's not going to leave just because he realizes that you're a complete idiot."

"Hey!"

Arthur merely shrugged, and before their conversation could continue, Francis and Matthew had already arrived and were waiting outside of their building.

In the end, Alfred's fears about ill omens and impending doom were proved to be largely unfounded. As the four headed uptown to the more tourist-friendly areas of the city, Alfred and Arthur found that it was very easy to keep the other two busy enough with sight-seeing that they didn't have much time or energy left for asking questions. Even when there was a lull between activities, and Matthew would attempt to start a more in-depth conversation with his brother, then Alfred would simply pretend that he couldn't hear him over the constant roar that surrounded them, which had become particularly aggressive because of the holiday. Matthew particularly was susceptible to this kind of treatment, as he was so used to not being heard no matter where he was.

But despite the abundance of these somewhat awkward instances, the day proved to be rather enjoyable. Alfred had, in a very rare moment of foresight, made sure to plan the entire day from start to finish. This was as much to make sure that there were not pauses in activity during which he could be interrogated as much as it was to make sure that they all enjoyed themselves. As Francis had offered to pay for cab fare, sparing them several trips on the subway, Alfred was able to drag them from place to place with very little difficulty, and in the span of a day was able to take them through Times Square (where he also insisted that he show them the M&M store, and purchase many bags full of the colored bits of chocolate for himself as well) and Rockefeller center, to the museum of Natural History (where Alfred spent almost an entire hour in every exhibit that had anything to do with outer space, and Matthew got very excited about all of the history exhibits; both Arthur and Francis mulled about uncomfortably, both bored but unsure if they wanted to speak to one another), and from there to Central Park, where they watched several people dance and play music. They even took a ferry to see the Statue of Liberty, which was fun even though it started raining heavily halfway through the ride.

The only time when it became difficult to deflect potentially dangerous conversations was when they all sat down to share a pizza, having returned from uptown as they made their way home to prepare for the rapidly approaching party. In the comparative quiet of the small restaurant, Alfred was no longer able to feign deafness when faced with questions about certain aspects of his life. But somehow, ever though he ended up telling them that his adoptive parents were "nice", and that he was majoring in "space stuff", neither of them seemed to be in the least bit suspicious, perhaps because they were so exhausted from the busy day. But Arthur thought that maybe it was because they were both as thick as Alfred.

Whatever the reason, the day went much more smoothly than Alfred or Arthur could have anticipated, and by the time they returned to the apartment, the sun was already beginning to set, and Alfred was humming with happiness and excitement.

"This is the best birthday ever!" He exclaimed as they burst through the apartment door, a couple of bags of items that he had purchased with Francis's money "As a birthday gift" hanging from his wrist. While Alfred had been more than happy to accept these gifts, Arthur had huffed pointedly and rolled his eyes whenever Francis had waved his sizable wallet around. After spending the entire day with him, Arthur had found the Frenchman to be even more flashy and pretentious than he had previously assumed. Throughout the day, Arthur had become more and more irritated at the older man's mannerisms, from the way that he spoke and acted as if he were the only real adult present in their small group, to the way he shamelessly flirted with their waitress and the people at checkouts, to how he flipped his long hair frequently, like a L'Oreal model. It all made Arthur want to retch, and he had found it increasingly difficult to be civil as the day went on.

Alfred, however, had noticed none of this, as he was too wrapped up in trying to connect with his shy brother and enjoying the positive attention he was receiving to care. He continued to grin broadly as he set his stuff down on the counter, even as Arthur scowled in an obvious bad mood.

"Are you ready for the party?" Alfred asked Matthew, who just smiled, knowing that parties had never really been his _raison d'être, _but willing to grit his teeth and bare it for his brother's sake.

"We need to move the blankets to the roof." Arthur said, glancing down at their living room blanket pile. Alfred nodded excitedly.

"Yeah. And the beer." Arthur glared pointedly at him, but Francis noticed and chuckled.

"You will not hear anything from me," he said, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender, "I am French. My mother used to put wine in my Sippy cup."

Arthur rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day, but Alfred laughed. "Woah. Really?" he wondered.

Arthur sighed, "No, Alfred. Not really." Alfred looked disappointed, and Matthew laughed lightly at him. Then there was the sound of buzzing coming from the appliance near their door.

"Aw, man, someone's here already?"

"It's probably Kiku. He's always early." Sure enough, it was Kiku, and when he came through the door, Alfred was practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

"Hey Kiku!" he greeted enthusiastically, and the smaller man winced a bit at his volume level.

"Hello Alfred. Happy Birthday." He handed his friend a small package, which Alfred took, thanking him happily.

He then waved Matthew over to where they were standing, "Keeks, this is my brother, Mattie. Mattie, this is my best friend Kiku!"

Arthur made an insulted sound from behind them, and Alfred looked a bit guilty.

"Aw, geez, Arthur," he mumbled, scratching his head a bit, "You're not really my _friend…."_

Arthur repeated the sound, only this time louder and higher in pitch, but it only made Alfred laugh.

"You sound like such a chick when you do that, Arthur."

"And just what is wrong with sounding like a chick?" said a voice from the hallway, and Kiku stepped out of the doorway to reveal two girls standing behind him, grinning.

"And just how did you two get in here?" Arthur asked, crossing his arms. They laughed. "We came in with Kiku," one of them said, "But Laura dropped her cupcakes on the way up and had to make sure they were okay."

"Are they?" Alfred looked concerned. Laura stepped into the room and handed him the box of cupcakes, pecking him on the cheek quickly as she did so.

"Almost all of them survived," she said, smiling, "Happy birthday, Al."

He grinned, "Thanks. Oh! You need to meet Mattie!" he gestured proudly to his brother, explaining the situation. But before she could greet him properly, Francis cut in.

"And don't forget about your brother's father!" he said cheerfully, gently reaching for Laura's hand and kissing it, "It is a pleasure, _Mademoiselle." _Laura's face tinted a bit at the attention, even as Alfred helpfully informed them that Laura didn't "play for that team". But her face wasn't anywhere near as red as Matthew's, who quickly began to stutter an embarrassed apology for his father's inappropriate behavior. Before he could stop his stuttering for long enough to form a complete sentence, however, he was stopped in his tracks, as the second woman who had been waiting in the hallway stepped into the apartment.

As she stepped into full view, quickly gliding over to Alfred to give him a small hug, all Matthew could think was that this had to be the most _absolutely beautiful _person he had ever seen. He wasn't sure how to describe it. Despite the fact that she looked like an actress, like the kind of person who just didn't _happen _in real life, with her dark brown skin and shiny hair and big eyes, there was just something else about her that made him instantly aware of her. Something about her movements, or her smile. Matthew glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else was gazing in awe, as he was, but was confused to see that everyone was simply carrying on as normal.

After breaking away from their hug, the girl looked up at Alfred with her wide brown eyes. "I didn't get you anything," she said, her tone unapologetic, but her eyes looking a bit guilty. Alfred just laughed.

"That's cool." He shrugged.

"I helped Laura make the cupcakes, though."

From behind them, Arthur snorted derisively. "We all should stay away from those, then."

"Shut the fuck up, Arthur."

Laura glared at him as well. "I think you did a great job, Michelle," she said quietly, ears turning a bit pink. Michelle thanked her, shooting another look of mock hatred in Arthur's direction.

After that, Alfred herded Michelle over to meet Matthew, who stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and tried his best to act normal and cool.

"It so great to meet you!" Michelle said happily, standing very close to him and smiling, "Wow, you look so much like Alfred."

"Uh…well, I uh…hi." He floundered miserably, his face heating up in an intense blush. Michelle didn't seem to notice. His dad, however, suddenly widened his eyes and arched his eyebrows with interest at his son's behavior, and Matthew fought a sudden desire to curse out loud, thinking of the pestering he was bound to receive later.

Arthur shook his head sadly, "He does look like Alfred, doesn't he? Poor sod."

"Hey!" Alfred protested, and Kiku snickered. But Alfred was still smiling, and quickly suggested that they all head up to the roof, seeming worried that they would miss the fireworks. As they were getting situated, all of them carrying up blankets and six packs of beer out into the comfortably warm night air, Antonio, Feliciano, and Lovino all trickled in. Soon they were all sitting comfortably, looking out expectantly in the appropriate direction, sipping beers and eating cupcakes and the pasta that Feliciano (God bless him) had taken the time to prepare for everyone. They all chatted happily with one another as they waited for the display to start.

"Say, Feliciano," Arthur drawled, somehow already a little tipsy, "What happened with that bloke you were with the other day? The big, serious guy."

Feliciano froze with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, and a slightly dejected expression found its way onto his face. It was Lovino who answered Arthur's question, "Never called back," he said without sympathy, "Typical. That'll teach Feli to hang around a cop."

"Now, now," Antonio said calmly, "It's only been two days. You still have a chance, Feliciano."

Feliciano smiled slightly, "Yeah!" He then became thoughtful, "I think I might have scared him a little, though." They all laughed a little at the thought of Feli being able to scare anyone.

Meanwhile, Matthew, having had his anxieties somewhat dimmed by the small amount of alcohol he had consumed, had managed to strike up a conversation with Michelle.

"So, you want to be an elementary school teacher?" she asked, and he nodded, trying to keep his words (and possibilities for embarrassing himself) to a minimum.

"That's great! I've always loved kids. I have about twenty younger brothers at home, actually."

Matthew blinked. "_Twenty_?" Michelle giggled at him.

"Well, okay, four. But sometimes it feels like twenty."

"Oh." Matthew noticed that, when Michelle had giggled, Laura, who was seated on her other side, narrowed her eyes at him slightly. "So," he asked, feeling slightly unnerved, "What do you want to do?"

"I'm studying to become a marine biologist, actually."

"Oh, really? Cool! I, uh, I've always liked, you know…fish. I mean, there aren't many fish in Ottawa, but…."

Alfred unfortunately overheard this part of their conversation, and laughed loudly. "Mattie, why didn't you tell me you had so much game?" He asked loudly. Matthew fought the urge to bury himself under the blankets and never come out.

Michelle rolled her eyes at Alfred, "Shut up, Al. We're having a conversation."

From a few spots away, Francis, who had been talking with Antonio, let out a troubled sigh, "I am afraid that Matthew has always been very shy around women. He has never even had a girlfriend."

Matthew sent his father his harshest glare, "_Arrête, Papa! Tu est tellement embarrassant_ !" But Francis simply smiled in response.

"Oh, I love you too, _mon petite._" He turned to Antonio, "He has always been such an affectionate son."

"That is _not _what I said," Matthew hissed. But his bad mood dissipated when he realized that Michelle had turned to him with interest.

"You speak French?" she asked, sounding impressed. Matthew beamed. Laura turned her face away from them, looking upset. Before anything more could happen, though, there was the unmistakable sound of fireworks being let off some distance away. Alfred shouted excitedly.

"They're starting!" He clapped his hands together. The fireworks were somewhat far from the apartment, but the display was so large that they were still clearly visible, and soon the group had gone quiet, staring transfixed at the colors in the night sky. After a few moments of relative quiet, Alfred, who was slightly drunk, as everyone else was, began to sing loudly and tunelessly, "Gooood bless Americaaaaa…."

Everyone groaned, and several of them pelted their empty beer cans at him. "Every fucking year," Arthur complained, shaking his head. Alfred threw his hands up in surrender, and the quiet resumed.

While everyone was watching the fireworks, Arthur took a moment to watch Alfred. His face was lit up in excitement and wonder, and Arthur wondered, as he often did, how this could be the same person who woke up regularly in the middle of the night, shaking and covered in sweat from nightmares of his past. As Arthur looked away from his young roommate and returned his gaze to the myriad of flashing colors, he decided that it was very fitting that this country, in particular, should celebrate itself in such a way, with something so big and loud and violent and destructive and beautiful. He thought about how, in America, life's pleasures always seemed to be mixed with pain, as everything was always being pushed to the point of uncomfortable excess. He thought that this rule applied to Alfred as well, and it made him feel like a weary old man in comparison.

But as Arthur sat on the roof next to Alfred, surrounded by their friends and Alfred's newfound family, he found peace in the thought that maybe Alfred had finally been given a chance at true happiness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: **Okay, so here's chapter three, the last of the redundant chapters! Now I'm all caught up, and the next chapter should be up in 2-3 weeks or so. Thanks to everyone for reading and favoriting and all of that good stuff! You're all fantastic (:

Ludwig Beilschmidt paced up and down his small, white, and very clean bedroom, contemplating his options carefully in his head as he walked. His cell phone was in his left hand, dangling uselessly at his side, and a cup of coffee was in the other, held up halfway to his mouth. It was only eleven in the morning, but even though it was one of Ludwig's days off, he had been up since six and, for once, the police officer resented his very ridged schedule. The morning had seemed to draw on forever.

Ludwig was feeling very lost. This was something that he was not particularly used to, as he worked very hard on a daily bases to control his life so that hardly anything outside of his work could take him by surprise. And, after years of investigating the streets of the city, even the most gruesome crimes could hardly break through his stoically practical demeanor. Throughout most of his life, Ludwig had been consistent and sure of himself and his identity; he knew what he liked, what he didn't like, what he valued, and what he stood for. When it came to most topics, Ludwig knew his position, and was firm and consistent in his convictions.

The subject of romance, however, was another story.

Ever since Ludwig was a little boy, when he and his family were still living in Dusseldorf, he had found the notion of romance irritating, mostly because no one ever seemed to stop thrusting it in his face, despite his disinterest. Whenever one of his classmates had pestered him, asking which girl he liked, or retelling with bewildered awe things that they had seen on the television when their parents weren't looking, Ludwig had felt like he was being force fed something he didn't want to eat. Every time he would say, "No thank you, I don't want that," they would just get confused, and offer it again, and more aggressively. When he was in secondary school, and one of the prettiest girls in his year had developed a crush on him, his friends had been shocked and appalled when he had rejected her. She had been upset as well, thinking that she was the problem…when in reality, the problem was that Ludwig didn't even understand what a 'crush' was supposed to feel like.

There were times in his life, though infrequent, when he thought that maybe he was beginning to understand. They were only small glimpses; pleasant friendships that he could imagine maybe developing into something more, or brief pangs of an unfamiliar longing upon seeing strangers on the street. When his brother, Roderick, had married his wife, seeing their happiness had made him think that maybe there was some merit to be found in the concept of love. But, for the most part, all of Ludwig's experiences had merely been uncomfortably forced attempts to make himself feel and appear 'normal', and his failures in this area had always left him wondering if there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Because, while everyone who cared about Ludwig always seemed to act as if there was something missing in his life, Ludwig had never felt anything other than whole.

He wondered if there was any purpose in what he was about to do. He had long ago given up on the idea of having a romantic partner, and he feared that another failed attempt would only end in pain. He didn't want anyone to be hurt because of his own abnormalities.

But Ludwig felt, almost instinctively, that this was different. Because he knew that even those few moments of comprehension that he had experienced had only been hints, shadows of what others were able to feel. What he had experienced just days ago had been different- he had blushed, he had stuttered, he had felt deep, sharp feelings in the pit of his stomach- just like what it always said in books. Just like what everyone had always told him he should feel.

He set down his coffee, and dialed the number into his phone.

It had hardly rung a single time before it was answered. "Yes, hello. What is it?" the voice of his brother drawled through the speaker.

Ludwig cleared his throat nervously, wondering again if this was worth it. "Good morning," he huffed, cringing immediately at how awkwardly formal he sounded, knowing that his brother would be suspicious. "Ah…how is Elizaveta?"

"She is fine," Ludwig could almost hear Roderich's eyebrows moving skyward, "Why did you call?"

"Well…" Ludwig wasn't sure how to continue, and he found himself wondering why he hadn't thought through this conversation more carefully, "Actually, I was thinking about visiting the museum later today."

"Is that so?" Roderich questioned, obviously surprised, "Have you taken a sudden interest in the arts, brother?"

"…Something like that."

There was a pause Ludwig's brother probably waited for him to elaborate on this vague statement. When he didn't, Roderick sighed in irritation.

"Well, if you want to come visit, that is fine." The tone of his voice signified to Ludwig that he thought the conversation was more or less over. Ludwig couldn't blame him.

"Well, actually…" he paused, not so much to organize his thoughts as to give himself time to build up as much courage as possible. He felt unpleasantly silly as he continued, "I was thinking that maybe we could work something out, that would be, ah…special."

His brother's momentary lack of response was all Ludwig needed to know that his cover had finally been blown. Even over the phone, he could tell that Roderich was smirking slyly on the other end.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he said, his tone making Ludwig wish that they were speaking in person so that he could hit him properly. When Ludwig only grunted in response, he continued, "Hm…You know I would usually not use my job to do favors for you, Ludwig, but if you are planning on bringing a girl around, than perhaps we might be able to work out a special tour."

Ludwig sighed, finding it unnecessary to the current conversation to point out that Feliciano was not, in fact, a girl. Instead he simply mumbled a reluctant, "Thank you," and, after a bit of effort, managed to disentangle himself from any further conversation.

He hung up the phone, wondering how he was going to survive this day. He already felt exhausted.

Then, sighing, knowing that there was no way that he could back out now, he scrolled to the most recently added contact in his list.

This time, the phone rang so many times before being answered that Ludwig was very close to hanging up and, consequently, to renouncing any belief that he still may have had in the ideas of romance, attachment, and fate. Which, considering the fact that Ludwig had held very little belief in these concepts from the beginning, would probably end in him aging alone in his pristine apartment until he was as dry and as wrinkled as the pages of the books with which he spent all of his free time.

Although, in that particular moment, this prospect did not seem entirely unappealing to Ludwig.

He was not given time to consider it too thoroughly, however, because the phone was answered just before he could press the button. His heart sped up instantly as his ears strained to listen to the quiet, sleepy voice that drifted to him through the speaker.

"_Pronto?" _Feliciano said, his musical voice thick with grogginess.

Ludwig was mortified. "I-I'm sorry," he apologized clumsily, "This is Ludwig. Did I wake you?" Because he himself kept such an early schedule, he had not even considered that the other man would still be asleep at this hour.

But Feliciano's tone brightened immediately as he realized who was speaking. "Oh, hello Ludwig!" he exclaimed, sounding pleasantly surprised by the call.

Ludwig cleared his throat, "Ah, yes. Hello." For some reason, Ludwig was suddenly reminded of doing presentations in grade school, and his teacher scolding him for saying "ah" between every other word. She had told him that it made him sound less authoritative. He wondered if Feliciano thought so.

"Well," he started, now making a conscious effort to not sound like a nervous idiot, "I was wondering, since you seemed interested the other night, if you would like to visit my brother's museum. Well, it isn't…it isn't 'his' museum, exactly, but he works there, so…I was wondering if you would like to go there, today. With me."

There was hardly moment's pause before Feliciano replied excitedly, "That sounds amazing! I would love to."

Ludwig wasn't sure if he felt relieved, or more nervous than ever, at Feliciano's response. "Great," he said, attempting to sound as easily enthusiastic as the younger man, "I will, ah…I will see you soon, then." Feliciano agreed, and then they hung up, and then Ludwig got busy preparing himself for the day.

Meanwhile, in a small, unkempt apartment not very far from Ludwig's, Feliciano bounded out of bed, singing happily to himself. From the bed which he had vacated, someone groaned into the covers.

"Will you shut the hell up, Feli?" Lovino griped.

"Sorry," Feliciano replied, still smiling, "I'm just really happy today!"

Matthew liked Washington Square. Compared to most of what he had seen of New York, which to him seemed to him like a photograph that had come out blurred as the result of too much frantic movement, just a mesh of confusing colors that conveyed nothing but speed and disorder, the square was to Matthew a relatively calm and spacious retreat. As he sat on a bench at the edge of the square, he found himself enjoying how everything slowed down enough that he could enjoy small things; the contrast of a few green trees against light blue sky and radiant steel, the shimmer of the sunlight reflecting off of the large, round fountain, the sounds of children crying and laughing and whining. Matthew didn't hate the city, really, but it was a city of doers, of participants active almost to the point of aggression, and he himself had always been more of an observer. He didn't like the idea that if he stopped to smell the roses (or the exhaust fumes) then he would be promptly run over by what could only be described as an armada of walking, talking bulldozers.

Alfred was sitting next to him on the bench, apparently attempting to inhale his sandwich and utilize it as a replacement for oxygen rather than actually ingest it. Matthew had noticed that this was Alfred's way with food, and had added it to the ever-growing list of ways in which he and Alfred were different. Matthew didn't mind these differences; in fact, he found them a little comforting. While he could never be sure which of his childhood memories were real, and which ones were fabricated, he thought that he had always had a picture in his mind of Alfred being very different from himself, and he liked the idea that these hunches were being validated. He had a feeling that, if he still could remember those days, then he and his brother still had something connecting them other than their identical DNA.

"Whatcha smilin' at?" Alfred asked, a small grin appearing on his own face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Matthew blinked; he hadn't realized that he had been watching his brother eat. He hoped that Alfred didn't think he was too creepy.

"What? Oh, nothing," he said quickly, embarrassed, "Sorry."

"You're sorry for smiling?"

"Um…"

Alfred had already stopped paying attention to Matthew, however, and he stood up suddenly as something apparently caught his eye. So fast that Matthew didn't even know what was happening at first, Alfred dashed over to the ground in front of them, bending down. When he rose, there was something small and red clutched in his hand.

"Hey!" he called to two people with a baby stroller a small distance away. Then he jogged over to them, handing them the object. One of the strangers took it, smiling gratefully, and bent down over the stroller. Alfred beamed at them.

After a few more words were shared between them, Alfred strode back to meet Matthew at their bench. "She kicked her shoe off," he said proudly.

Matthew merely nodded in comprehension. While it was nice that Alfred was prone to such random acts of kindness, he couldn't shake the feeling that simple compassion wasn't his brother's only motivation. It was obvious to Matthew that he fed off of praise and attention, two things that always made Matthew shy away in discomfort, or "go into his shell", as his Papa always said. It was this phenomenon that had earned him the nickname "Petite Tortue"- Little Turtle.

"Hey," Alfred said, bringing Matthew back to the present, "Kiku got me a new game for my birthday, and I'm gonna go over to his place sometime to play it, and I was wonderin'…do you wanna come?"

Matthew blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. Until then, Alfred had seemed oddly reluctant to spend much time with him. "Are you sure it's ok?" he asked, a bit nervously.

Alfred squished the paper left over from his decimated lunch into ball. "Yeah! Keeks has a really nice apartment. And you two should get along great; you're both so quiet and everything. It'll be really fun!"

"Oh, well then…sure," Matthew smiled, "I'd love to."

"Cool," Alfred said, already seeming to become preoccupied with something near the other end of the square.

A few yards away from them, Matthew watched as a baby boy flung his pacifier onto the white cement.

Alfred didn't notice.

In all honesty, the part that Ludwig had been the most worried about was the taxi ride. Once they were in the museum, he knew that Feliciano would be interested in other things, meaning that the potential for awkward silences would be significantly reduced. Actually, this is why Ludwig had chosen this venue in the first place, despite the inevitable and unwanted encounter with his brother. Because he had already been to an art gallery with Feliciano, he knew that he could handle it. A relatively long ride in a taxi, however, with nothing but the sounds of honking and the blabbering of annoying little television sets to fill the silence, was a breeding ground for potential disasters.

But when the time came, and the two of them were seated next to each other in the backseat, he realized that his worries were unfounded. When he had paced his apartment, thinking fearfully about long, empty moments of quiet, he had obviously underestimated Feliciano's ability to fill the space with his words.

"Oh! That place over there makes really good sandwiches!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger at his window. Ludwig leaned over slightly to get a glimpse of the place in question.

"Hm," he said, leaning back into his seat, "I've never been there before."

"Really? I can take you sometime!" Then he giggled suddenly, "Did you see that guy on a bike? He had vegetables on his helmet!"

When they arrived at the museum, Ludwig paid their driver, and held the door for Feliciano as he got out. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, he stood and stared at the enormous staircase and white columns that were in front of him.

"Ludwig," he said, gaping, "You didn't tell me that you're brother worked at _this _museum!"

Ludwig rubbed the back of his neck, "Ah, no, I suppose I didn't. I am Sorry."

But Feliciano flung himself at Ludwig, attaching himself to the larger man's right arm. "No, don't be sorry! It's amazing!" he gushed. Ludwig became very flustered, and cleared his throat loudly.

"Well…should we go inside, then?"

The entrance hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was brightly lit, with sun streaming in through a round skylight that was reminiscent of the structures of ancient Rome. When they entered, Feliciano gasped audibly in delight.

"It's so beautiful!" he exclaimed.

"You've never been here before?"

Feliciano shook his head. As they walked over to the long line for admission, Ludwig remained very aware of the other man, who was still clinging to his arm diligently.

"Excuse me," a voice said from behind Ludwig, "But you two look a little suspicious to me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to search you."

Ludwig spun around, simultaneously detaching himself from Feliciano. "What...oh. Hello, Liza."

His sister–in-law grinned. She had green eyes, long brown hair pulled back into an efficient ponytail, and was wearing a security guard's uniform that barely seemed to fit over a large bulge in the area of her stomach.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" Ludwig didn't like the way that Elizaveta was smiling, or the way that her voice sounded significantly more high-pitched than usual. He hoped that it was just some bizarre hormonal symptom.

He cleared his throat, feeling his face heat up, even after making a conscious effort to physically force the blush from his features.

"Ah, yes. Th-this is Feliciano." He gestured to the man in question, as if to make sure that Liza knew which person he was referring to.

"It's so nice to meet you!" Feliciano chirped, reaching out to shake her hand enthusiastically. At this moment, the expression on Elizaveta's face was rather strange; her eyes were wide, and her lips were pressed tightly together as if attempting to hold back an uncontrollable, manic smile.

"It is _very _nice to meet you too, Feliciano," she said, making meaningful eye contact with her brother-in-law. He looked quickly away from her.

"Oh!" Feliciano suddenly exclaimed, delighted, as he noticed Liza's stomach, "Are you going to have a _bambino? _That is so exciting!"

Elizaveta smiled kindly at him, "That's right!" she said, "There are only a few months left, now."

Ludwig grunted, "Do you really think that you should still be working, Liza?"

She waved him off dispassionately, "Of course I am! I could work until I gave birth in the middle of the European sculpture gallery. But, unfortunately, Roderich is insisting that I take my leave next week." Suddenly, Elizaveta's demeanor changed, and she took on the person of a professional security guard once more. "Now," she said, taking a few steps back from them, "I have been specially instructed that you two Very Important Persons are to be taken to the front of the line for a special tour."

"Wow, really?" Feliciano looked overwhelmed with happiness, but Ludwig, who did not enjoy rule-breaking, narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Are you sure you won't get into trouble for that?" he asked Elizaveta.

Again, she waved off his concern as if it were an irritating insect, "You worry too much, Luddy. Now, step this way please."

In reality, Liza's "Special Tour" consisted of her asking Feliciano what he would like to see next, and then personally escorting them to whatever exhibit he choose with rapid efficiency. Occasionally, if there were large crowds gathering around a specific piece, then she would politely, but commandingly, ask them to step out of the way so that they could get a closer look. This upset Feliciano, however, and she stopped doing it after he begged her to allow the other people to have their turn. Elizaveta had looked as if she was going to cry.

Ludwig noticed that, for most of their visit, Feliciano was standing close to him. He didn't hold onto his arm, as he had when they were first entering the building, but he did seem to gravitate to whenever Ludwig was standing, and Ludwig had to admit to himself that he didn't entirely resent the invasion into his personal space. For instance, there was a moment when Feliciano stumbled on the stairs, and Ludwig was able to catch him by the arm. He had been slightly alarmed to find that he wasn't only happy that Feliciano hadn't fallen; he had been happy that he was the one to prevent it.

After a while, Ludwig's brother appeared to greet them. There was really no reason for him to be there, but Ludwig assumed that he saw whatever was going on that day as an excellent opportunity to tease his brother. Upon seeing them, Roderich was not disappointed.

"Well, this explains a lot of things," he said, smirking. After being introduced to the Feliciano, he had managed to find a bit of privacy with Ludwig as Feli had become particularly engrossed in a painting on the other end of the room.

Ludwig glared at him.

"It's funny," Roderich continued, "Our father always assumed it was me, for some reason."

"Imagine that," Ludwig huffed.

"Oh, there is no need to behave that way, brother. You know I am fine with it. And Liza, well, you know how she is…Ow!"

"Hello, darling," Elizaveta said sweetly, her nightstick clutched tightly in one hand, "What were you saying about me?"

Roderich pouted, clutching his wounded arm. "You can't just use that for whatever you want, you know," he said resentfully. She smiled at him, more sincerely this time, and rubbed his arm.

"I'm sorry, dearest. But don't you think we should be letting Ludwig get back to his date?"

Ludwig flinched at the word. But Roderich either agreed with her, or was still wary from being struck in the arm with a nightstick, because he quickly retreated, leaving Ludwig to get back to Feliciano.

Ludwig wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen. After they left the museum, he and Feliciano went out to eat, chatting idly about art and history and Ludwig's family members, and then Feliciano went home. They didn't kiss, like they had only a few nights before, but Ludwig was almost relieved about that. The only thing that didn't feel right about the end of the day was that he felt as if something important was missing once Feliciano had left his side. And, for the first time in his memory, Ludwig felt lonely in his apartment.

"I can't believe you're making me do this."

"Relax, Matthew. It will be good for you! You need to learn an appreciation for life's finer pleasures."

"Why would I do something that I hate?"

"How do you know you will hate it? Besides, this is something that father and son are meant to do together when the son reaches a certain age."

"I'm pretty sure that most people don't go to strip clubs with their parents."

Francis stopped walking abruptly. Before that, he and Matthew had been making their way down a relatively quiet sidewalk, the light from square windows and neon signs illuminating everything, making it appear almost as if night hadn't already fallen. Now, sighing, Francis turned to face his son.

"I see what is happening," he said, adjusting his features into their most pitiable expression, "You do not wish to spend time with me anymore."

Matthew put a hand to his face in distress. "Papa, please don't do this to me," he begged, but Francis was merciless.

"No, no, I understand," he continued, "You are an adult now. You have no need of your poor old Papa. It is perfectly natural, I suppose."

Matthew rolled his eyes at his father's theatrics, but found that he could not ignore the guilt that was beginning to fill his weak heart.

"Fine," he grumbled after a moment, and Francis recovered suspiciously quickly from his apparent heartache.

"Fantastique!" he exclaimed, and they proceeded to walk towards their destination.

But Matthew's reservations only increased when they reached the establishment, and his dad nearly had to drag him to the entrance.

"Do you have ID?" a very large and intimidating man asked Matthew. Poor Matthew could only stutter in response, and Francis had to intervene.

"He is supervised," he said, flashing the man a charming smile, and handing him his own identification. After a moment's consideration, the man shrugged, and allowed them both in.

Matthew came very quickly to the conclusion that this was going to be the most uncomfortable evening of his life. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy watching girls take their clothes off, or anything, and he certainly didn't think that there was anything wrong with that personal life decision, but he definitely felt that he would enjoy the experience more in a much more private setting, with someone he actually knew. For the most part, if he saw a girl who he thought was pretty, his first thought was that he would like to get to know her a bit before he saw her breasts. He found it very difficult to enjoy the experience when all he could do was blush and sweat and fidget for all of the wrong reasons.

His father, however, did not seem to share this view. While Francis was undoubtedly of a different species entirely from the scores of drunken men shouting obscenities from their seats, he was certainly enjoying himself. For the majority of the time, he sat back calmly in his seat, winking and smiling at the girls as well as giving money to them. This behavior might have made Matthew extremely uncomfortable, if he wasn't used to his father behaving in a similar way with everyone, everywhere, all the time.

After not very long, however, Francis's eyes began to wander around the room. When they eventually rested on a small door on the other end, he discreetly tapped Matthew on the shoulder.

"I'll right back," he assured his son, who nodded, probably assuming that he was going to use the toilet. "Try to relax a little, non?"

The other room was different- darker, quieter, and more claustrophobic. Unlike the larger room which he had left behind, which was littered with poles and platforms, this room only had a single platform. Upon entering, Francis immediately found a place in the back, choosing not to sit; he was only stopping for a look, after all. He smirked slightly at the thought of poor Matthew, who was undoubtedly still squirming, and attempting to make as little eye contact as possible. He made a mental promise to himself that he would not leave his son alone for too long. He had simply wanted a moment to indulge his…alternative tastes.

Currently, there was a man out on the single stage. He was already down to nothing but briefs and a tie, but Francis had to admit that he wasn't exactly his type. The man had more muscles than even Francis thought he would know what to do with. He took a moment to look out into the audience; it consisted mostly of women. Up near the stage, a woman was wearing a purple sash and plastic crown, and he assumed that she was a soon-to-be newlywed.

After the first man had finished, an announcer began speaking from somewhere off stage. "And now," he said, with the gaudily forced enthusiasm of someone at a carnival advertizing a freak show, "All the way from the exotic shores of the British Isles, here for your enjoyment, give a warm welcome to our own Officer Kirkland.

There was a smattering of cheers from the crowd, but Francis frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Then the man in question stepped out onto the stage.

Oh. That was why.

Now, really, it wasn't Francis's fault that at first he didn't see the obvious problems with his son's brother's young roommate suddenly appearing on the stage of a random strip club of which he was currently a patron. Because honestly, how could he be expected to form any sensible thoughts when Arthur was up there, swishing his hips and wearing a police officer's outfit? It was unfair. He was only human. And so, Francis's panic had not come to him immediately. It was postponed by a moment of mindless happiness that involved much staring and gulping and stupid, open-mouthed grinning. In fact, his mouth began to get very dry as Arthur moved, finally fining his way to the pole in the center of the stage….

Wait…what?

Francis blinked, like he was just waking up from a particularly vivid (and pleasant) dream. Then, still numb with confusion and shock, he waved over a young waiter who was walking past him.

"Excuse me, sir," he asked, never removing his eyes from the stage, "But do you know how old that man is?"

The waiter frowned, "Who, Arthur? Um…I think he's in his late twenties. Twenty-six, maybe?"

"Twenty-six," Francis repeated vacantly.

"Uh, yeah," the young man said, now eyeing Francis warily, "Is something wrong, sir? You look a little dizzy."

"No," Francis said, and the single syllable came out unexpectedly harsh, "Absolutely nothing. I just think I might need to step out for some air."

Matthew was having a miserable time. His dad had not yet returned from the bathroom, and he was beginning to suspect that he had not really gone to the bathroom in the first place. It wouldn't come as any sort of surprise if that were the case.

It was the same every time. Every single time a woman would come out, she would eventually look at him, he would try not to make eye contact but would end up doing it anyway, he would think "she probably has kids or something", and then he would think "I should probably give her some money". But then, every time, crippled by anxiety and embarrassment, he would realize that he was entirely incapable of doing that. And then he would feel guilty. And then it would happen all over again the next time.

But if he was embarrassed already, it was nothing compared to what he was about to feel.

Matthew was not well acquainted with the rules and customs of strip clubs, but there was one thing he understood- if you unexpectedly run into someone you know at a strip club, it is almost always a bad thing. If you are a customer, and you see someone you know who is another customer, it's awkward. If you are a dancer, and you see someone you know in the audience, it's potentially life-destroying.

But, if you are a customer, and you see someone you know on stage, it's…confusing.

Matthew was certainly confused when his brother's friend Michelle came out onto the nearest pole, in a seeing-your-teacher-at-the-grocery-store kind of way. Well, there were some differences, obviously, most notably that Matthew couldn't remember any of his teachers wearing high heeled boots and not much else (wasn't the nakedness supposed to happen gradually, or something?) at the grocery store, but the amount of surprise was definitely similar.

And it was this surprise, embarrassingly, which prompted Matthew to be unable to hold back a soft (but noticeable) exclamation.

"Michelle?" he said reflexively, like shouting after burning yourself on the kitchen stove.

To her credit, she only lost her composure for a brief moment after hearing her name all but shouted at her. When her eyes found Matthew, they widened in shock, but only a second later she seemed to remember her surroundings, and she smiled a small, embarrassed smile in his direction.

And, because the situation was completely ridiculous, and because Matthew suddenly felt worlds better just after seeing that gentle smile, he smiled back at her, and laughed. And still dancing, still very much unclothed, Michelle laughed a bit too. It was a beautiful laugh.

Matthew fumbled with his wallet.

Before he could accomplish much of anything with his trembling fingers, however, Matthew felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to see that his father had finally returned from the "toilet".

"Get your things together. We are leaving," Francis hissed in his son's ear. Matthew stared at him, confused.

"Uh, ok," he said, "But hold on a sec. I was just-

"No, Matthew. We are leaving. Now."

Matthew frowned at the tone of his Papa's voice. But before he had the chance to ask any questions, he found that he had gripped him by the arm and was pulling him out of his seat.

"Are you crazy?" he asked Francis, but his father ignored him. As he was pulled through the maze of tables towards the front door, Matthew shot an apologetic look over his shoulder at Michelle, but she didn't look disappointed; she looked frightened. He hoped she didn't think that he was in trouble.

When the two finally burst out into the night air, Matthew yanked his arm from Frances's grip.

"What was that about?" he asked, but his dad didn't seem to be listening. He was already plowing a path through the crowds down the sidewalk.

"Dad, wait! Where are you going?" he walked quickly, eventually managing to fall into step with the older man, "What did you do? Are you in trouble? Talk to me!"

Francis gave his son a small, apologetic look, but did nothing to slow his frantic pace. "Oh," he said, with uncharacteristic rancor, "I am not the one who is in trouble."

"What does that mean?" Matthew wondered desperately. Suddenly, Francis stopped. He had led them around the corner, to the other side of the club, and they were standing outside of a large grey door that obviously wasn't a main entrance. Then, without ceremony, he smashed his fist against the door multiple times.

"Dad!" Matthew gasped, alarmed. Then, after hardly a moment, the door opened halfway. A man in a black shirt, black pants, and a professional-looking headset stuck his head out.

"Can I help you?" he asked harshly. Francis's confrontational demeanor never wavered.

"Yes, in fact, you can," he said darkly, causing the man to raise his eyebrows, "I would like to speak to Arthur Kirkland, immediately if possible. Call it a "Family emergency".

"Wait, what?" Matthew whispered, "Arthur's here? What's going on?"

But the man shook his head, "I'm afraid I can't allow that, sir. Mr. Kirkland is working right now."

"Then I will wait." Francis crossed his arms defiantly.

The man looked as if he was about to kick them off of the premises, but just then a voice drifted to them from over the threshold.

"Is something wrong?" it said from inside, "I heard you say my name."

The man pinched the bridge of his nose, and the swung the door open all of the way. "Do you know this man, Arthur?"

From the doorway, Arthur stared at the two of them, his expression completely blank. He was wearing a large black raincoat that hid whatever he was wearing underneath, and the light from what was presumably a dressing room caught in his light hair before spilling out onto the dark street.

"Fuck," he said.

Francis only continued to glare at him, chest rising and falling rapidly in anger. Noticing the look in Francis's eyes, the man in all black turned to Arthur, concerned, "Do you need me to, um, take care of this for you?"

Arthur shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said, "It's nothing I can't handle." He wrapped his raincoat more tightly around himself, "Tell Marie I left, alright? I was done for the night anyway."

The man didn't look happy about it, but he grunted and allowed Arthur to step out onto the sidewalk. Then, with one last threatening look at Francis, he closed the door, and the three of them were alone.

For a beat, no one said anything, and groups of people bumped into them as they walked by. Then Arthur attempted to meet Francis's eyes. "Now," he said calmly, his tone reminiscent of a high school guidance counselor, "Let's try to talk this through rationally."

But Francis responded by gripping the younger man's arm tightly, and bringing their faces closer together. "I asked a waiter for your real age. You lied to us," he growled.

"Papa…." Matthew said quietly, but Francis didn't hear him.

"Let go of me," Arthur spat, freeing himself from Francis's grip, "I know this looks bad, but I can explain, if you would give me ten bloody seconds…."

"Yes, please," Francis said venomously, "Explain. Explain to me why my son's brother is living with a twenty-six-year-old stripper-

"I don't see what my being a stripper has to do with anything, actually," Arthur interjected, lip curling, "And, to be honest, I would rather not do this out in the open. The apartment's just around the corner…."

"Oh, we will do this here, now," Francis said, but Arthur was already walking briskly down the sidewalk, and Francis and Matthew had no choice but to follow him.

Francis would have heckled Arthur all the way back to the apartment, but Matthew placed a gentle hand on his father's arm, giving him a meaningful look that told him to wait. And so, the walk was tense and silent.

But when Arthur reached the door of his building, the dam broke almost as soon as he began fumbling with the key.

"You must understand," Francis started again, more calmly than before, but only slightly, "That when I see a grown man, living with a university student-

"Alfred isn't a university student." Arthur mumbled, rolling his eyes as he opened the door, and began heading for the old, narrow staircase.

"Excuse me?"

Arthur began walking up the steps, "He isn't in university. Obviously."

Francis shook his head in disbelief. He turned to Matthew, who was walking behind him. He hadn't said a word since they had left the club. "And what do you think of all of this?" Francis asked him.

"Well…" Matthew said, not meeting his father's eyes, "I mean, I sort of suspected that he wasn't telling me everything…."

From ahead of them, Arthur chuckled slightly, "See? At least your son seems to have some common sense."

"Matthew," Francis said, sounding hurt, "Why did you not tell me?"

"I just thought that he would say something when he was ready."

For a moment, Francis almost felt guilty, but then he shook his head as they stopped outside of Arthur and Alfred's door. "You are far too trusting, Matthew," he said sadly.

Arthur swung the door open, and the three of them stepped inside. "Now," Arthur said quietly, "We can talk. Just don't be too loud; Alfred's sleeping."

Francis chuckled darkly, "Oh, so you are his father now?"

Matthew frowned, "Dad. Stop it."

"Stay out of this, Matthew."

"How can I stay out of it? He's my brother. This affects me more than it affects you."

Francis shook his head, "You don't understand, Matthew. Because of my mistake, I am responsible for anything that has happened to Alfred." When he said this, he glared pointedly at Arthur.

Arthur had had enough. "You know what? You're right," he spat, taking a threatening step closer to Francis, "You are responsible. And yeah, a lot of 'things' have happened to Alfred. But I sure as _hell_ am not one of them. In fact, you are goddamn lucky that I found him."

"Oh, yes, I am sure he is very lucky, as an impressionable young boy, to have miraculously been 'found' by a grown man, who he now shares a one bedroom apartment with-

"Uh, guys," Matthew said nervously, "You're getting kind of loud…."

"How _dare_ you." Arthur said murderously, "How dare you accuse me of that. I would never hurt Alfred. You know nothing."

"I know a bad situation when I see one," Francis retorted, "I have half a mind to get Alfred and take him back to Canada with us tonight."

"He's not a child! He wouldn't just follow you home like a stray animal!"

"No, I'm sure he would not; who knows how you have brainwashed him."

Matthew's eyes suddenly widened "Guys…." He said. But neither man heard his quiet voice over their shouting.

"I cannot believe this," Arthur ranted, "After all that I have sacrificed, all that I have done for him, now you walk in and act like you're his savior, just because you wear fancy suits and can buy him presents, and just because of the job that I had to get so that I could support him…after I took him off of the fucking _streets_…By the way, tell me, since you're so streetwise, how many people do you know who would see a dying, crack-addict orphan on the side of the road, and do anything other than walk right past him? If it wasn't for me, he would have been lying dead in an ally somewhere three years ago!"

His words rung in the air, like the sudden silence after the crack of a whip, or a particularly decisive gunshot. For a moment, Francis gaped at Arthur in horror as the truth began to slowly sink in. But then he noticed the distress on his son's face, and that it was not directed towards himself, or Arthur, but at the bedroom door.

"Alfred…." He said quietly, a few tears beginning to trail silently down his face.

Francis turned to face the door, already knowing that he would see Alfred standing there. But what he could not have prepared himself for was the look of complete devastation on his face.

"Christ," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his hair, "Alfred, I'm so sorry."

For a moment, Alfred just stood there, hair still ruffled with bed-head, and stared at them with wide eyes covered by crooked glasses. The, he bolted across the room and out the door so fast that none of them could react, slamming the door behind him.

"Alfred!" Arthur called. He started to go after him, but, to his surprise, he found Matthew blocking his path.

"I'll handle it," he said gravely, "You two stay here, and work this out."

As the two older men looked at Matthew, their eyes showed so much guilt that he almost pitied them, but he still though that they had both been acting selfish.

"He's probably gone up to the roof," Arthur said numbly. Matthew nodded, and left the two of them standing awkwardly in the main room.

Sure enough, when Matthew made it to the roof, Alfred was there, near the edge, with his knees pulled up close to his chest. When Matthew sat next to him, he was staring up at the sky.

"You…you can't really see any stars, here," Matthew said. Alfred closed his eyes, as if trying to wish himself somewhere else.

Matthew waited a moment, trying to decide what to say next. Finally, he sighed. "You could have told me, you know." He said.

Alfred shook his head, opening his eyes to stare out at the city. "I bet," he said, "That when you imagined meeting me, you didn't picture me like this."

"What do you mean? I found you. You're alive. That's all I've ever wanted."

Alfred looked away from him. "I'm a fuck-up," he said, his voice cracking.

"Stop it, Alfred. You're not a fuck-up. You've been through a lot…" Matthew was having difficulty keeping his voice steady, "…But you've gotten through it. You're probably the bravest person I've ever met." Alfred still wouldn't look at him, "And it could have just as easily been me. And I don't…I don't know if I would have made it as far as you have."

Alfred turned and stared at his brother with wet eyes, "Really?"

Matthew smiled, "Definitely." They sat in silence for a few moments, before he spoke again. "You know, it's weird," he said, "But I don't really feel like we've been separated for that long, you know? I feel like I still know you."

Alfred smiled a little, "I know what you mean." Then his eyes widened, "Hey, what if we have psychic powers, or something?"

"What?" Matthew laughed.

"I read somewhere that twins can have psychic powers. Like, they know what the other one is thinking and stuff."

Matthew snickered again. "Oh, okay," he said, "Let's try it. What am I thinking about?"

"Um," Alfred screwed up his features into a look of extreme concentration. "Hamburgers," he finally declared. Matthew shook his head, grinning. "Oh," Alfred said, "I guess that's what I was thinking about."

Matthew laughed, then, and Alfred joined in, and for a little while, the two just sat there on the roof, both just enjoying that they were able to be together.

After Matthew shut the door behind him, Francis and Arthur were faced with a terrible, guilty silence. They were both standing in the main room of the apartment, trying not to make eye contact, and shuffling their feat like chastised kindergarteners.

It didn't take long for Arthur to lose patience. Sighing heavily, he made his way over to the window, gracefully stepped out onto the fire escape, and lit himself a cigarette. He only had time to enjoy a few moments of peace before Francis followed him, awkwardly crawling out of the window to join Arthur in the now too-cramped space.

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket as Arthur attempted to sit comfortably while also avoiding making any physical contact with Francis. Then, Francis cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.

"Would you mind, ah…."

Arthur sighed again, and handed Francis his lighter.

"Thank you." There was a pause, and the sounds of several car horns going off drifted up to them from the streets below. "Do not tell Matthew about this. He does not know that I still smoke."

"Alfred hates it," Arthur said, taking a drag, "Americans. They're so uptight about those sorts of things. Meanwhile, all of our neighbors own guns."

Francis decided to ignore that alarming statement, hoping that it was an exaggeration. Instead, he said, "Technically, Matthew is Canadian."

Arthur snorted, "Is there a difference?"

Francis bit his tongue.

After a moment, Arthur suddenly rubbed his hands over his face, groaning. "I really shouldn't have said those things," he lamented, "With the way Alfred behaves, it's so easy to forget how sensitive he still can be. Not that I blame him."

"We all make mistakes," Francis said, staring straight ahead, "And, from what I've heard, it sounds like Alfred is lucky to have you."

"Hm," Arthur glanced at Francis out of the corner of his eye, "And I…I suppose Matthew is lucky to have you, as well."

Francis let out a bark of a laugh, and Arthur frowned at him. After a moment's thought, he asked, "So, why did you adopt Matthew, if you don't mind me asking? You must have been quite young."

"You flatter me," Francis said, winking. But Arthur gave him a look that said that had definitely not been the intention, so Francis continued. "Marianne and I, we were together in high school. We were young, and stupid, and she was sick…" Francis took in a shuttering breath, "Now, of course, I realize how selfish it was of us, to take bring a child into a home that was already destined to be broken. And of course, we went and found the somewhere out of the way, undocumented, and that's why Matthew and Alfred ended up separated. But she couldn't have her own children, and honestly, I…" he stared out into the lights of the city, "I couldn't stand the thought of being left alone."

Arthur looked down into his lap, "Oh."

"I am afraid it is not as heroic as you taking in Alfred."

"I don't think of it that way."

Francis frowned, "Why not? As you said before, there are not many people who would have done the same."

"That's just it," Arthur said, knitting his eyebrows together pensively, "He was only sixteen at the time. He was a kid, and he was dying, and no one was doing anything. And I just thought, how many of these people send money every month to some starving child in Africa who they never even see? But then you put a starving child right under their noses, and they step over him like he's a stain on their carpet."

Francis stared at him. They were making eye contact for the first time since the argument, and Arthur didn't even look angry. He just looked like he was trying to explain something very important to Francis; the expression in his green eyes was incredibly earnest.

Francis couldn't help himself.

_CRACK._

Before Francis could even begin to piece together what had happened, Arthur was crawling back in through the window, and the left side of Francis's face felt as if it was on fire. After he had collected his wits, he scrambled in after Arthur.

"Unbelievable," Arthur was saying, storming to the kitchen, "Un-fucking-believable. You find out I'm a stripper, and then you try to kiss me. You think I'm easy, now, is that it?"

Francis sighed, cursing his uncharacteristic tactlessness. "Of course not, Arthur. That is not the reason-

"I don't want to hear it!" Arthur snapped, "That's it- I want you out of here."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me! Leave, go on!"

But Francis didn't leave, much to Arthur's dismay. Instead, he began to walk slowly towards him.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked harshly, "Stay away from me!"

Francis continued to walk until he could place one arm on either side of Arthur, effectively pinning him to the kitchen counter. Arthur swallowed, but didn't make any attempts to break free. "This is ridiculous," he said.

"No. What is ridiculous, _chérie, _is that you could ever imagine that I would think that you are easy. Because I am fairly certain that you are the most difficult person that I have ever met."

And, with that, he managed to successfully kiss Arthur. Within seconds, they were gasping, breathing hot breath into each other, and Arthur kept thinking that he should push Francis away, because he hated him, and everything, but it had been so long since he had been properly kissed, and both of their mouths tasted like cigarettes, and how had he ended up sitting on the counter…?

They were forced apart suddenly by the sound of familiar voices in the hallway. Francis let go of Arthur, and Arthur jumped down from the counter, embarrassedly wiping a large patch of saliva from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

When the boys entered, they both stood and stared at Arthur, both with very different expressions on their faces. Alfred, who had always been pretty terrible at reading environments, shook his head, looking disappointed.

"Were you guys fighting?" he asked, "Like, actually fighting? That's really immature. And don't try to deny it; you're both all red and sweaty."

But Matthew, who was very good at reading environments, and who knew his father well, said nothing, but gave Francis a look that said, "You've got to be kidding me."

Arthur cleared his throat loudly, "Uh, yes, Alfred, you caught us. We're very sorry." Francis nodded in agreement. But then Arthur seemed to remember what had happened, and he gave Alfred a genuinely apologetic look. "Are you feeling better?" he asked him.

Alfred smiled, "Yeah. It's all good."

Arthur relaxed, "Good. Now, it's almost two in the morning. I say we all go to bed."

Alfred nodded, suddenly yawning, "Yeah, okay." But then he smiled again, "Hey, you know what I just realized? Now that everything's out in the open, we can spend a lot more time together! No more secrets."

Arthur swallowed, "Yeah," he said faintly, "No more secrets."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: **Hi everyone! So I'm posting this chapter about a week later than I'd wanted to, because I had some trouble logging in, and then I was away for about five days. But I'm going to try to keep up a once-a-month-ish update rate, just so you know what to expect. And, of course, thank you for the reviews and follows and stuff! (: Always highly appreciated.

**Chapter Four**

Kiku's apartment really was pretty nice. It wasn't the biggest of places, but New York City didn't seem to have an abundance of personal space on the market, and what it lacked in dimensions, it more than made up for in esthetics. If the enormous side window looking out on a gorgeous view of Lower Manhattan wasn't enough, then the fully equipped kitchen, sleek and stylish appliances, and flat screen television all aided in giving off an impression of modest wealth; although, compared to Alfred and Arthur's apartment, any living space with regularly running water seemed like an absolute miracle of modern technology. Matthew wasn't entirely sure where the soft-spoken, virtually unreadable photographer was able to acquire enough money to afford such a handsome living space. He assumed that it was at least questionably legal.

He shifted on Kiku's leather couch, uncomfortably aware of the noises it made, even though both Alfred and Kiku were currently in the kitchen preparing snacks for their planned night of gaming. Matthew had offered to help, of course, but the other two had insisted that he remain in the living room and relax. And so, Matthew was stuck sitting on the noisy leather couch, picking at potato chips and hastily attempting to clean up any crumbs that he dropped, and trying not to feel like too much of an outsider.

From the kitchen, which was attached to the living room, but not a part of it, Matthew could suddenly hear the telltale sounds of calamity. There was a crash, a mumbled, "Fuck. Sorry, man," followed by the heavy, resigned sigh of someone who has long since given up on real anger as an emotion. A moment after all of this, Alfred appeared at the kitchen entrance, covered in sticky rice and looking sheepish.

"Got kicked out," he explained, making his way over to the couch and plopping down next to his brother with enough force that Matthew was momentarily launched out of his seat, "We, um, might just be sticking to the potato chips tonight."

"Oh," Matthew said, readjusting himself, "That's okay." It might have been Matthew's imagination, but he thought he could hear some very quiet and irritated Japanese muttering drifting in from the kitchen. "What did you even do?" Matthew asked curiously.

Alfred shrugged. "I was just trying to help," he said.

Not long after, Kiku emerged from the kitchen area looking flustered, wearing an apron and picking various foods out of his hair.

"All of that work," he muttered irritably, "For nothing." Then he fixed Alfred with a level but unpleasant stare.

Alfred shrugged, "It's not a big deal, man. We usually just eat regular snack foods anyway."

"But we have a guest, Alfred." Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his seat, causing an array of embarrassing noises.

"It isn't a problem," he insisted, "Really, I-"

"Hey, since when am I not a guest?" Alfred asked, speaking over his brother. He leaned back into the couch, placing his hands behind his head, and his feet on the coffee table.

Kiku walked over to the television, kneeling down and beginning to fiddle around with some wires. "You practically live here," he said, "Please move your feet."

"It's nice here. There's A.C.," Alfred retorted. Then he smirked devilishly. "And, Keeks?" he said, "You might wanna take off your apron."

Kiku's ears tinted red, and he stood up and rushed back into the kitchen, with Alfred laughing behind him. When he returned, moments later, the apron had been discarded, but Kiku was still red in the face. He ignored Alfred, who obviously found the situation much more humorous than his friend, and instead gave Matthew an apologetic look.

"I am very sorry about this," he said, "I am usually a much better host. I don't know what has come over me." Matthew may have been seeing things, but Kiku's unreadable eyes seemed to dart in Alfred's direction, as if making sure that the other knew exactly whose fault this was. He must not have imagined it, because Alfred actually sobered up a little.

"I'm sorry, man," he said genuinely, "Really. I'm sure Mattie doesn't mind though. Right, Mattie?" He gave his brother an unnecessarily pointed look.

Matthew smiled at Kiku reassuringly, "Of course not! I'm just happy to be here."

Kiku seemed to relax a bit. Matthew had noticed that the quiet man seemed a lot more expressive today than he had been at Alfred's party almost a week before. He assumed that he was just more comfortable in smaller groups, like himself. Or maybe Alfred had just finally pushed him to his breaking point.

"Okay," Kiku sighed, taking a seat in chair next to Matthew and Alfred, "Everything is set up. Matthew, what character would you like to play as?"

If Matthew had been surprised by Kiku's angry outburst about the food, then he was shocked and slightly horrified to witness the spectacle of Alfred and his friend playing videogames together. The chosen game was some kind of Japanese zombie-horror fighting game, and, while the effects seemed a bit cheesy to Matthew, the combination of scary music, heavy breathing noises, and zombies occasionally popping up where they weren't expected seemed to be too much stimulation for Alfred. While playing, Alfred would either be screaming angrily, throwing his body around as if he could make his character move by sheer willpower, or falling out of his seat in terror if a zombie showed up on the screen unexpectedly. Matthew quickly realized that he was in a very dangerous position next to his brother, and had tried to move as far to the other end of Kiku's couch as possible to avoid being kicked, punched, or elbowed.

Kiku, if quieter than Alfred, was just as enthusiastic. He was leaned forward in his chair for every second that they played, legs drawn close to his body, eyes fixated intently at the screen. Matthew was glad that they were playing on 'team' mode. From the look in Kiku's eyes, he could tell that he would never want to play against him.

But, all things aside, Matthew was enjoying himself, even if he was more or less dead weight in the actual game play. So it was disappointing when the Kiku's cell phone started to ring, and he had to pause the game. The room was suddenly filled with an empty silence as the sounds of gunshots and zombies (and Alfred) screaming were brought to an abrupt halt.

"I'm sorry," Kiku said as he checked the caller ID on his phone, "I have to take this. You can keep playing without me, if you want."

Alfred groaned as Kiku left the living room. Looking disappointed, he threw his controller onto the coffee table, sighing heavily.

"What was that?" Matthew asked, concerned, "Is something wrong?"

"Nah," Alfred said dejectedly, placing his feet back on the table, "It's just his job. This happens all the time- he probably won't be done for a while."

Matthew looked down at his own controller as if it were an animal that had just died in his hands. "Oh. Well…I guess we could keep playing?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, that's dumb," he said, and Matthew felt a twinge of irritation at his brother's sudden apathy.

"Well, what do you want to do, then?" he asked. Alfred seemed deep in thought. "We could go back to my hotel," Matthew continued, "There's room service, and a pool and stuff…."

But Alfred shook his head, suddenly brightening in excitement. "No, man!" he said, suddenly standing, a frightening gleam coming into his blue eyes, "You know what I just realized? This is an amazing opportunity."

Matthew was alarmed. "An opportunity…?"

"Totally! I mean, you've been in NYC for almost a week now. And what have you done?"

Matthew thought about it. "Well, I saw the fireworks, and we went to-"

"Nothing!" Alfred exclaimed, cutting his brother off, "Well, nothing good anyway. Tonight is your chance to live it up!"

"Okay," Matthew said tentatively, "What do you wanna do?"

"Um, I don't know yet. Anything!" He started walking towards the door. "Come on; Kiku won't mind if we leave."

Matthew hesitated. Whatever Alfred was planning, he had a feeling that it wouldn't be the kind of recreation that he was used to. But Alfred looked so excited, and so earnest, that he couldn't say no.

"Alright," he decided, finally standing up, "Let's go."

Alfred held the door open for him as they left, and Matthew couldn't help but think that his brother's smile looked slightly manic. He hoped desperately that he hadn't just made a huge mistake.

Arthur stared at his small bookshelf, trying to decide what he would read while he ate his dinner. Alfred had already been at Kiku's for over an hour, and Arthur was still trying to convince himself that he was enjoying the newfound silence in his apartment. To make up for some of this silence, he hummed The Clash to himself as he scanned the spines for something properly old, eloquent, and English.

Before he could make his final selection, however, Arthur wrinkled his nose in reaction to an alarming new smell that was making itself apparent in the room. After pausing briefly to thoroughly experience a moment of dread, he turned around to see that smoke was beginning to rise in softly curling wisps from the stove.

"Oh, bloody- shit, shit, fuck!" he chanted, bounding over to the kitchen counter and praying that he wasn't about to have his entire building evacuated (again) by setting off the smoke alarms. Panicking, he shut off the stove, and flung it open, coughing as he was hit by a thick, black cloud of smoke.

"Every…goddamned…time!" he yelled at no one, between coughs. Then he ran into his and Alfred's bedroom, covering his nose and mouth with the crook of his arm. When he returned, he was carrying the small white fan that they used to keep cool during hot summer nights. He plugged it into the nearest outlet, and stood there, holding it up to his smoking stove, feeling ridiculous and ashamed. After the smoke had dissipated enough that Arthur could face his stove without his eyes stinging, he grabbed the old t-shirt that they used as a potholder and pulled his disastrous creation out, setting it on the counter.

The frozen pizza was, as Arthur had feared, nearly unrecognizable. It wasn't as if he had been particularly looking forward to the sorry excuse for a meal, but he hadn't felt like going out to get food, and had just wanted something quick and simple. Now all hopes of that were destroyed, and he had wasted an entire meal. Realizing this, Arthur proceeded to kick the stove in frustration.

"Bloody old piece of shit," he grumbled. It was true, to an extent: the stove looked as if it could have been a feature in the apartment back when in its earliest days. But Arthur couldn't blame the equipment entirely, as this sort of incident never seemed to happen when Alfred was the one cooking.

Before Arthur could do anything more than stare in shame at the product of his failure, he was startled by the sound of the buzzer going off. For a moment, he looked at it in surprise. Then he narrowed his eyes at it in suspicion. Alfred surely wasn't home from his friend's yet; the two could go on for hours on their worst days.

But Arthur had an unpleasant feeling about who it could be.

He kept his face tensed into a sour expression as he walked over and held a finger down on the button.

"Yes?" he said, trying very hard to squeeze out every ounce of irritation that he was experiencing into the single syllable. The voice that answered him confirmed Arthur's fears.

"Hello," it said pleasantly, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's tone, "It is Francis. May I come in?"

Arthur took a long moment to glare at the appliance, hoping that maybe if he tried hard enough, then the Frenchman might be able to feel it three stories down. Then, sighing, he returned calmly to his bookshelf.

A few seconds went by. Then, "Arthur? Are you still there?"

_No,_ Arthur thought, _go away._

"You might want to let me in," Francis's disembodied voice continued, "There is a woman down here who is giving me very unpleasant looks."

"I wonder why," Arthur mumbled to himself.

"I was just wondering if you would like to go out to dinner."

"Absolutely not."

"I know you are up there. I'm not going to leave."

Arthur pulled a book out of his shelf with theatrical serenity, "Well you're going to be out there for a long time, frog."

Francis's voice was quickly losing its gentle tone. "Arthur, this is ridiculous. To be honest, I think that you are being very immature."

This was the last straw for Arthur, who abruptly dropped his book and charged angrily over to the intercom.

"Oh, _I'm _being immature?" he snarled into the speaker.

"Oh, _bonsoir_, Arthur! I am so happy that you answered. I was getting worried that something horrible had happened to you."

"Shut up. I only answered because you were harassing me."

Francis sounded mildly offended, "I think 'harassing' is a strong word."

"Is it? I half expected you to start throwing rocks at my window."

There was a pause. "Actually, I have done that before," Francis admitted.

Arthur groaned. _How did I get stuck with this lunatic_, he thought.

He tried another tactic to shake the other man off. "I have to work tonight," he said.

"No you don't," Francis replied almost instantly, "It is your night off."

Arthur's eyes widened in horror, "It's…really disturbing that you know that."

"Do not flatter yourself; Matthew told me. I am not stalking you," After saying this, Francis actually held his finger down on the intercom so that Arthur could hear his dejected sigh. "Please let me in. I only want to talk."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing that he had virtually no chance of getting rid of Francis at this point. He heaved an irritated sigh of his own, before buzzing the Frenchman in without a word. A moment later, he realized in horror that the mess from a few minutes ago was still on the counter, and rushed over to dispose of it.

"Where is the bloody trash bin?" he griped, now running around the apartment in a state of panic. After a few minutes of this, there was a rap on the door. Arthur chucked the burnt pizza into his and Alfred's room, and slammed the door before going to let Francis in.

"Hello," Francis stood in the doorway, dressed in another fancy suit and grinning in the most irritating way possible. Arthur merely shot him a nasty look, choosing to say nothing as he stepped aside to let the other man in.

Francis's nose wrinkled a bit as he entered the apartment. "What is that smell?" he asked, "Is something on fire?"

Arthur continued not to look at him as he answered, "Probably, somewhere. It's a big city, you know."

Francis watched Arthur thoughtfully as he continued to putter around the apartment, picking things off of the floor in a deliberate and obvious effort to ignore his guest.

"I am sorry," he said, confused, his nerves grating at Arthur's behavior, "But have I offended you in some way?"

Arthur let out an annoyed puff of air, finally turning to face Francis. "Well," he said harshly, "I don't usually react very well to near strangers aggressively trying to get into my pants, to be honest."

Francis raised his eyebrows. "It is strange. You are making it sound like I am the only one who has shown any interest."

Arthur spluttered, "I-I…that was…You took me by surprise, that's all. It was a mistake."

Francis looked down at his feet. "Well," he said quietly, "If that is how you feel."

Arthur stared at him. How was the man making him feel guilty? That kiss _had _been a mistake; he was only being honest.

Francis looked back up to meet Arthur's eyes, "In any case, my offer still stands. We have a lot to talk about. And don't you think that it is better if we at least try to get along? For the boys?"

"It didn't seem like you were thinking about what was best for 'the boys' when you were trying to sleep with me," Arthur retorted, and he almost flinched at the sound of his own words. He didn't know what it was about Francis that made him behave so harshly. He just couldn't seem to stop himself.

Francis bit his lip, and Arthur's face heated up. "Alright," he said, maybe a little angrily, "Fine. I will leave you, then. Goodnight."

But as Francis turned and began to make his way to the door, Arthur suddenly found that he was no longer in control of his speech. The words tumbled out of his mouth, beyond his control, "Wait! No, no, you…bloody hell, you don't have to leave. We can…" He sighed, resigned, "We can go out to dinner, if you really want to."

Francis froze. When he turned around to face Arthur, a small smile had returned to his face. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, seeming to have recovered completely from Arthur's blows, "You know, I found the nicest little place the other day…."

But Arthur wasn't exactly listening, because he was too busy wondering what the hell he had just gotten himself into.

Matthew was starting to feel like he had relinquished all control of his own fate. Or, rather, that Alfred had stolen it from him. As they wandered through the streets of the Lower East Side, the warm, heavy air was buzzing with the excitement of nightlife; not necessarily restricted to the kind which required drinking and dancing, but also the energy of people who continued to work and move and live into the late hours. This energy only served to make him more anxious, and Matthew found himself feeling a little regretful about his inability to just say 'no'. As a result of this weakness, he was uncomfortable, nervous, and being lead completely blindly by his brother, who seemed to be more likely to follow his own bizarre whims rather than any kind of logic.

But, then again, maybe Alfred had been right when he had said that Matthew needed to get out and live a little. He looked over at Alfred, who was humming to himself and smiling, and having an excellent time just enjoying the warm summer night and the sense of excitement and activity that saturated the atmosphere.

Matthew wondered why he couldn't be as relaxed as his brother. He had been given an opportunity to have a fun night with Alfred- so why couldn't he just unclench his sweating fists and enjoy himself?

Matthew was so lost in thought that he ran straight into a man who was standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Oh! S-sorry," he stuttered.

"Do you want to buy this?" the man, who was wearing a shirt with the sleeved ripped off, and a black cap on his head, said.

It took as second for Matthew to realize that the man was holding a CD out to him. Tucked underneath his arm were several more. "Huh? Oh, I, um…."

Thankfully, Alfred stepped in before Matthew could say anything more. "C'mon, Matt," he instructed, gripping Matthew's upper arm and steering him away.

"But," Matthew began to protest, "I ran into him. I could at least give him some money, or something…."

But Alfred just chuckled at him, letting go of his brother. "Don't worry about it, Mattie. Seriously."

Matthew shot a guilty look behind him. The man had already been enveloped by the crowd. Then, turning back to face forward, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at his twin.

"Uh, Alfred?" he asked after a moment, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah?" Alfred responded, already loud voice slightly elevated in order to be heard over the din of the city.

"Where are we going?"

Alfred just shrugged, grinning widely and picking up his walking pace.

Matthew sighed. He had been afraid of that response.

Then, another thought popped into Matthews mind. It was a question that had been nagging him for the past couple of days.

He cleared in throat. "Uh, Alfred?" he repeated.

"Yeah, Mattie?"

"I was just wondering, um…Michelle, she's," Matthew could feel his face heating up, "I mean, I saw her, at the club, and I was just wondering, uh, not that it matters or anything, but, I guess she isn't a college student either? Not that it's important. Or anything. I'm just curious."

Alfred continued to focus on the sidewalk in front of him, "What, Shelly? She's in college. Her family just doesn't have a lot of money, so she works at the club during breaks and stuff."

Matthew couldn't help but smile softly to himself. "Oh," he said, "That's really cool. I mean, that she's putting herself through school, and everything."

Then, to Matthew's horror, Alfred stopped suddenly in his tracks, leaving the light but constant stream of people to part around him. When he turned to look at Matthew it was with a scheming, lopsided smile, and glint in his eye that Matthew didn't like at all.

"Hey," Alfred said mischievously.

Matthew stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans, "W-what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You _like _her."

Matthew blinked at him. "What? N-no, I-"

But Alfred had already resumed his walking, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it, bro," he comforted, "I get it. She's pretty, smart, nice…."

Matthew's face felt like it was probably glowing bright red. "It sounds like _you _like her," he mumbled. But Alfred just laughed.

"Nah," he said, shaking his head, "We're just friends. She isn't really my type."

Matthew looked over at his brother, "What is your 'type', then?"

Alfred looked surprised by the question. "Um," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I dunno, man." He trailed of, not answering the question, and Matthew noticed that he now looked strangely subdued, his excited energy suddenly dampened. As they walked, he thought that his brother's eyes looked slightly guilty, like he had been about to say something he shouldn't.

It passed quickly, Alfred's energy returning to him as he was struck with an idea. "Hey!" he exclaimed, "I know what we're gonna do now!"

Alfred didn't tell Matthew where they were going, and he didn't begin having suspicions until it was too late.

"Alfred, no," he said nervously, as he started to recognize the route that he had taken with his Papa only a few days previous, recognizing the lessened noise levels and the way that the glow from several neon signs had begun to tinge the atmosphere a rusty orange, "I can't go in there, I can't-"

Alfred smiled reassuringly at his brother as they neared the strip club. "Relax, bro. It'll be fine. Just let me do all the talking, okay?"

Matthew wasn't at all reassured by this notion, but something stopped him from fighting Alfred as they turned a corner, heading once again to the supposedly restricted back door. He wasn't sure if that something was bravery, or cowardice, but as it propelled him forward he found himself feeling strangely numb. He wondered if he was having an out-of-body experience.

Alfred knocked on the metal door calmly, the way one would knock at the door of a friend's house. The sound hardly seemed to travel far, and was swallowed by the sounds of cars and people and sirens, so Matthew had a brief but desperate hope that no one would hear it.

Unfortunately, the acoustics in the dressing room must have been pretty decent, because within the span of moments a large with kind eyes but a scowling mouth appeared in the cracked door.

"Oh, it's you," he said when he saw Alfred, "Blondie isn't working tonight. Sorry."

Alfred rolled his eyes, "I know that. I'm here for Michelle." The man began to open his mouth in response, but Alfred beat him to it. "Michelle!" he called, getting on his tiptoes in an attempt to see over the man's head, "Are ya in there? It's me, Alfred!" He then proceeded to wave his arms in the air wildly.

Matthew groaned, buying his face in his hands. The security guard reached up and seized Alfred by one of his wrists.

"Hey!" Alfred protested, struggling.

The man glared at him. "Just because you have friends here, kid, doesn't mean you can do whatever you want."

Then a third voice came from inside the building. "Alfred?" it asked incredulously, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Hi Michelle!" he called, waving again, "I brought my brother, Mattie! He wants to talk to you!"

"Alfred!" Matthew squeaked, but Alfred just winked at him conspiratorially.

After a few words were exchanged between Michelle and the security guard, Alfred was released, and Michelle appeared. She was wearing a light blue, silk robe, her long dark hair was captured in two braids, and she seemed to be halfway through applying her stage makeup. She looked embarrassed, and was glaring at Alfred with a kind of bewildered venom, like she could not even begin to process the boy's stupidity.

Matthew immediately felt a kind of kinship with her.

Alfred only continued to smile at her, oblivious. "Hey, you remember Mattie, right? Well, he's got some stuff to tell you." He then stepped to the side, revealing Matthew proudly like he was the next puzzle on an episode of Wheel of Fortune. So much for 'I'll do all the talking'.

Matthew stared at the woman in front of him with wide, frightened eyes. Then, to his horror, words began to fall out of his mouth uncontrollably. He was reminded strangely of the time one of his friends had dared him to try and eat a whole bag of Maltesers, and the little round candies had tumbled from his mouth like a waterfall.

"Oh, uh, y-yeah, uh…hi." He tried to smile at her, but he realized that she probably couldn't see it, as he was staring very intently at the light grey pavement, "Um, I just wanted t-to say, uh, sorry for the other night. I-I wanted to give you some, you know, some money, b-but…"

Matthew found himself running out of words, so he chanced a look up at Michelle. He felt nauseas as he saw that she was smiling kindly at him. There was maybe even a little pinkish tint developing on her cheeks, probably from remembering that Matthew had watched her perform.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Oh, that. Don't worry about it. I'm just happy that everything worked out between the four of you."

Matthew swallowed, the dryness in his mouth making it difficult, and mustered up the courage to smile back at her. "Thanks. I'm…I'm happy, too." Then they stayed like that, for a few moments, just smiling shyly at each other.

Alfred, however, stood off to the side, eyes darting between the two quickly, like he was watching a very rapid tennis match. After a second or two of silence, he decided that events were not progressing fast enough for his liking, and helpfully interjected. He slung an arm around his twin's shoulder.

"_And_, Mattie wanted to ask if he could make up for it by buying you dinner sometime. Right, Matt?"

Matthew's eyes widened in surprise. "What? N-no, I, I didn't-"

Michelle rolled her eyes, "God, Alfred. Leave him alone." But then she looked at Matthew thoughtfully for a moment, and said, "But…dinner does sound nice. I mean, if you want to." She fidgeted nervously with the sleeves of her robe, not looking at Matthew.

He blinked at her a few times, her words not sinking in properly. "Ye-yeah! Of course!" he said, still in shock.

Alfred beamed, pleased with his accomplishments, "Awesome! He'll call you, okay?"

Matthew and Michelle both glared at him simultaneously. Then Michelle crossed her arms, looking Alfred over suspiciously.

"So what are you two up to tonight? Are you going to Tony's gig?"

Alfred brightened in excitement. "Oh, yeah! I forgot about that, thanks!"

Then the security guard reappeared behind Michelle, giving her a pointed look. She sighed, "I have to get going." She smiled at Matthew, "It was nice talking to you!" Then the guard closed the door, giving Alfred one last glare as he did so.

"It…it was nice talking to you, too!" Matthew called, too late for Michelle to hear him. He continued to stare at the grey metal, letting out a contented sigh.

Next to him, Alfred, thrust a triumphant fist into the air. "Aw, man! Score!" he cheered.

Matthew snapped out of his daze to glare at his brother, although one corner of his mouth seemed to be permanently stuck in an upturned position. "I can't believe you did that, Alfred!" he groaned, "I'm so embarrassed."

Alfred was practically bouncing up and down, "Aw, what're you embarrassed about? She said yes, didn't she?"

"Yes, but-"

"See? You should be thanking me! I mean, seriously, would you have done that if I hadn't helped you?"

Matthew thought about this. He had been prepared to scold Alfred, and tell him that he should learn to mind his own business, but those words stopped him in his tracks. Matthew knew that Alfred was right. If it wasn't for the irritating and uncalled for actions of his brother, he would probably have avoided Michelle for the rest of their stay in New York. Instead, he now was going to go on a date with her.

He felt his heart start to pump quickly at the idea, but Matthew was surprised to find that it wasn't from anxiety. In fact, he felt suddenly giddy, and as he took a deep breath of the thick, dusty-smelling city air, he felt as if it were filling him with energy and excitement.

He looked over at Alfred, and smiled.

Alfred laughed, clapping him on the back. "Yeah, man. And now we can go to Antonio's gig! He plays at this little coffee shop place; you'll like it."

"Okay," Matthew said, still smiling. He felt like he could handle anything.

There were some things, however, that neither boy was prepared for.

Alfred had lead them out onto wide and bustling Bowery, and they were walking and chatting happily, when Alfred suddenly yelped in shock, grabbing Matthew's arm and pulling him back.

"Wha…what are you doing?" Matthew wondered.

When Alfred looked at Matthew, there was shock and fear in his eyes. He seemed unable to articulate what he had seen, and after several moments of opening and closing his mouth like a gasping fish, he merely pointed towards the building that they had just been about to walk past- a small restaurant with large windows and a green, overhanging awning with white cursive letters.

Matthew started to walk over to get a good look, but Alfred held him back, so he settled for peeking cautiously into the restaurant.

"…Oh." He said, as his eyes fell on the source of Alfred's distress.

"That's all you have to say?" Alfred whispered fiercely, eyes still bulging out of his head as he leaned over to try and get a better look at Arthur and Francis, who were seated conspicuously at a table next to the window, talking, a basket of bread sitting between them.

"Um…yeah?" Matthew was a little confused at Alfred's reaction. "I don't know, Alfred. They're just having dinner. And why are you whispering? It isn't like they can hear us…."

Alfred shook his head, eyes narrowed as he continued to observe the two from his concealed location. Then he turned his focus abruptly back to his brother, placing a sturdy hand on both of Matthew's shoulders.

"Matthew," he said seriously, "Is your dad, you know, um…."

Matthew raised his eyebrows, "What? You mean, does he like guys?" Alfred nodded solemnly, and Matthew had to laugh a little. "I thought that was pretty obvious. Haven't you noticed him flirting with everyone?"

Alfred shrugged, and Matthew wondered if his brother actually hadn't noticed.

"What about Arthur?" he asked Alfred.

"Are you kidding me?" Alfred was getting more and more hysterical with every word he said, "He's super gay! He's, like, the gayest person I know!" Then he frowned thoughtfully, "And I know a lot of gay people."

Before Matthew could respond, Alfred covered his face with his hands, "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit."

"Is it really that bad?" Matthew wondered, scrunching his face up a little as he watched his brother's dramatic reaction.

"Of course it's bad! You don't know Arthur. He's terrible at relationships! Trust me, if we let this happen, then it's going to end with a toaster getting thrown out a window, and us never seeing each other again."

"Um…a toaster?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." Alfred looked miserable.

Matthew placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said, "Papa wouldn't let that happen. Neither would I. Besides, I didn't think that Arthur even really liked him."

But Alfred shook his head again. "That's just the way Arthur is; the more he likes you, the more he yells at you. You should see how much he yells at me!"

"…Hm."

Alfred peeked over the corner again, "Maybe we should go in there. We can yell at them, and then they'll feel bad, and then they'll stop trying to ruin our lives. Plan? Plan."

Matthew sighed, upset that Alfred's panic was contrasting with his newfound pleasant and relaxed state. "I think that you might be overreacting," he said soothingly, "How about we just go to Antonio's thing, and we'll deal with this if anything else happens. Okay?"

Alfred stared at him. Then, to Matthew's bewilderment, he laughed slightly.

"What? Did I say something funny?"

Alfred snickered, "You say 'about' funny. 'Aboot'. Ha ha."

Matthew glared, "Yeah, okay, fine. Let's just go, okay? My dad thinks I'm at Kiku's house, and I don't really want him to see me."

Alfred cast one last, concerned glance at the restaurant, like he was still wishing that he could barge in and start pelting dinner rolls at Arthur. Finally, he looked away, with an expression like a sigh of resignation.

"Alright, fine." Then he braced his right hand on his knee, bending down like he was about to start a marathon, "We blend in with the crowd in three, two…."

As soon as they entered the coffee house, Matthew immediately felt comfortable. The place was built less like a café, and more like a comedy club, with a raised stage overlooking a sea of tables. The brick walls, dim lighting, and pleasant smell of polished wood all made Matthew's eyelids feel heavy, and he was happy to sink into a chair across from Alfred, where he felt safely enveloped by the dark atmosphere.

They were a little late for the event, and Antonio was already in a seat, cradling his guitar and introducing his second song into the microphone. Matthew relaxed even further when he began to play, something slow and gentle and beautiful that had Antonio strumming the metal strings gracefully, one finger following the other in rapid succession. When he sang, his accent made the English words sound less harsh and blunt.

Matthew leaned over to speak near Alfred's ear, "He's really good!"

Alfred smiled. "Yeah. He and Arthur used to be in a band together."

"Seriously?" Matthew was surprised. He tried to picture Arthur in a band, but found it to be slightly beyond his imagination. "What happened?" He wondered.

Alfred's smile fell slightly as he shrugged, "Well…Lovino and Feli's grandpa died, so Tony let them move in with him. And him getting AIDS didn't really help."

Matthew gaped. He couldn't believe that Alfred had just given away something so personal and serious so easily. As he turned his attention back to the stage, noticing even from a distance how Antonio smiled contentedly to himself as he played, he struggled to fight the sudden choking feeling in the back of his throat.

"And…" Alfred continued, looking down into his coffee, "I mean, when Arthur took me in, he kind of sold his drum set, cuz I needed clothes and stuff." Then he looked up, smiling proudly. "But, I'm gonna try and get him a new one! I've been saving up bits of my paychecks."

Matthew watched his brother as Alfred's eyes landed back on Antonio, and felt like a hole was opening in his stomach. While he and Alfred had been getting along well, they had for the most part stayed away from any serious topics, mostly because Matthew had been reluctant to ask many questions after the disaster of a few nights ago. But it was moments like this when Matthew was reminded of how little he knew about his brother's past.

Antonio's song finished, and Matthew clapped enthusiastically, while Alfred cheered, "Yeah, Antonio! Woo!" At the recognizable sound of Alfred's voice, the man looked over to their table, and waved, not appearing to have any delusions of professionalism.

Matthew felt oddly special for having a connection to Antonio, even as he felt an embarrassed blush appear when many of the audience members looked towards their table.

Antonio played several more songs, before leaving the stage to allow the next artist to have their turn. As a pretty woman with dreadlocks and piercings took the stage, Matthew leaned over the table to Alfred. "We should probably get going, Al," he said quietly, so as to not be disrespectful, "I don't know when my dad will be coming back…."

Alfred scrunched his face up in disgust at the reminder of what they had seen on the way there. After a moment, and a brief glance at the stage, he sighed, "Yeah, I guess you're right. Arthur kind of, um, warned me not to get you into trouble or anything, so I don't think he'd be too happy either."

"Did you get me into trouble?" Matthew asked, confused. He didn't feel like he was in trouble, and he could usually tell, because of the cold sweats and heart palpitations.

Alfred thought for a moment. Then he grinned, "You know what? I didn't. Actually, I did a totally awesome job of not getting you into trouble."

Matthew laughed, "You did." Then his mind flickered suddenly back to Antonio, and he decided to ask something that he had been thinking about since the man had left the stage. "Um, Alfred? Do you think that I could see Antonio before we go? I just, uh, I just wanna tell him that I thought he was really good."

"Oh! Yeah, sure," Alfred said, slightly surprised. Then he gestured to a small wooden door in the corner of the room, "He's probably hanging out in the back room over there. You can just walk in…I need to take a wiz, but I'll come and get you when I'm done. Okay?"

"Oh. Uh, okay," Matthew mumbled. He hadn't exactly planned on going alone, but he had already made up his mind, so he and Alfred temporarily went their separate ways.

Matthew paused outside of the door to the backroom, wondering how Alfred could have thought that he would be welcome there. But, figuring that there was no turning back at that point, and thinking that it would be stupid to knock, he turned the knob and pushed lightly, peeking his face in.

"…So, anyway, now he's spending all of his time with the bastard," a young man who Matthew recognized from Alfred's birthday party was saying, "I keep telling him that it's damn stupid, but you know how he is. He thinks life is like some cheesy movie, or…or something."

"It is what it is, Lovino," Antonio replied lazily, "His life can be a cheesy movie if he wants it to be."

"True," said another person, this time someone that Matthew didn't recognize. Lovino rolled his eyes.

Matthew attempted to make his presence known by opening the door a bit wider, and was hit with a strong smell that he couldn't exactly describe, but could definitely recognize from the dorms at his school. He felt his face get unbearably hot as he looked at the faces of Lovino, Antonio, and a few other people who he had never seen before. He watched as Antonio passed a joint to one of these nameless people, and then looked up, eyes finally landing on Matthew.

He squinted up at him from his seat on a ratty-looking couch. "Alfred? Is that you?"

"Oh, uh," Matthew stuttered, "N-no. I'm his brother, Matthew. We met on the Fourth of July…."

"Oh!" he said, smiling kindly, "Of course. I'm sorry, Matthew."

Lovino groaned, "Great. Just what we need; another Alfred."

"Be nice, Lovi. Please."

Matthew swallowed. He was starting to feel very stupid. "Well, I, uh, I just wanted to say that I saw you play, and I thought you were really good. I really enjoyed it."

Antonio blinked up at him for a second, and then grinned. "Thank you, Matthew. That is very kind of you."

"Aaaw," said a woman who was seated to the far right of the small room, "That's so cute. Toni's got a groupie!"

Matthew felt like he was going to throw up. He wondered why Alfred hadn't come back from the bathroom yet. "Um, well, I guess I'll go now," he said, voice dropping to an almost unintelligible register of quietness.

But Antonio shook his head, "No, no, stay! Don't let them bother you. Please, come and sit with us."

Matthew considered his options. It would be rude to refuse Antonio's offer, and besides, wasn't he the one who had just been having revelations about living his life to the fullest? And Alfred still hadn't come back yet….

"Um, okay," he decided, "Thanks."

Lovino groaned again, but Antonio smiled, shifting a little on the couch to make a space for Matthew.

Alfred had to admit, his attention span wasn't the greatest. Ever since he was a little kid, tasks that should have taken mere minutes had dragged out for hours, because he would always find himself occupied by more appealing stimuli, like bugs or toy trucks or comic books. It didn't matter where he was living at the time; there would always be something to distract him, and there would always be someone to punish him for it.

But, still, Alfred had never learned the consequences of his wandering and daydreaming, and so it had never really stopped. So it was entirely predictable that he would turn a brief visit to the restroom into a half hour long excursion. First, he was distracted by talking to a nice college student and her friends, grinning and winking at them and thoroughly enjoying himself. Then, he spent a good ten minutes arguing with the barista, who he was well acquainted with, and trying to get him to give him free pastries. This endeavor failed spectacularly, but Alfred still considered it to be time well spent.

He was barely aware that any time had passed at all when his eyes found the clock on the wall.

"Oh, shit!" he said out loud, but no one paid him any attention. Keeping up a steady stream of expletives, Alfred all but ran towards the backroom, suddenly concerned about his brother's health and safety.

"I lost him," he mumbled to himself as he went, "I take him out one night, and I fucking lose him. Good job, idiot."

When Alfred reached the door, he flung it open and dashed inside, closing it behind him. "Guys," he said, breathing heavily, "Have you seen Matt…thew…." He trailed off as he stared in confusion at the scene in front of him.

His brother was seated in a small space between Antonio and Lovino, his hand curled into a fist at his mouth as he let out tiny, quiet coughs. To his left, Lovino was cackling like he'd never experienced anything so amusing before in his life, and, to his right, Antonio was patting him on the back, murmuring soft, comforting words in Spanish.

Lovino was the first to notice Alfred. "Hey, Alfred," he gasped in between fits of laughter, "You didn't tell us that your brother was cool! We thought he'd be like you!"

Alfred was still gaping wordlessly when Matthew finally looked up at him, smiling widely, "Hi, Alfred!"

Alfred blinked rapidly as he slowly began to put various details together in his mind. "Uh…sorry I took so long. I kinda got distracted."

"That's okay," said Matthew contentedly, throwing his arms over Lovino and Antonio's shoulders, "Your friends are really nice!"

Lovino laughed harder.

Alfred tried to remain calm. "Guys," he said slowly, bringing a hand up to run his forehead, "Please, please tell me you didn't get my brother high. Please, just tell me you didn't do that to me."

Antonio stared up at Alfred with wide eyes, confused. "Um…is that bad?" he asked innocently.

"Oh, my God," Alfred moaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, pushing his glasses up to his forehead, "I can't believe this. Fuck. I am in so much trouble."

Lovino snorted, "With who, Arthur? Fucking hypocrite. The man drinks like he thinks the world is ending."

"Yeah, well, you can tell him that for me. I'm sure he'd take it really well."

"Hey," Matthew said, apparently deciding that he should be a part of the conversation, "It isn't their fault."

Alfred gave his brother a long look. Then he sighed, "Well, it doesn't matter whose fault it is. I'm still gonna get it." Then he walked over to the couch, holding out a hand to help Matthew out of his seat, "Come on, dumbass. Let's get you out of here."

Matthew took Alfred's hand, looking guilty. "M'sorry," he said quietly, but Alfred shook his head, unable to find within himself the ability to be angry at his brother.

"It's fine, Matt. We'll figure something out."

Alfred was relieved to get out of the dark, stuffy coffeehouse, and onto the open street. When his feet hit the pavement, he breathed in deeply.

"It'll be fine," he said, more to himself than to Matthew, "We just have to get you to the apartment before Arthur and Francis get home. Then you can just use our bed, and I'll tell them that you were too tired to go to the hotel, and they don't have to know anything. That'll work, right? Matthew?"

But his brother just continued to stare at him, pupils occupying an unnatural portion of his blue eyes, making them look black in the muted light.

"Right, Mattie? Come on, answer me bro."

Matthew blinked at him slowly, "I…I thought I already did."

Alfred groaned, grabbing his brother's arm to encourage him to start walking, "Come on, let's just go. God, Mattie, what were you thinking?"

"I don't know," Matthew replied, "I just…you said I should go out and do things. And you were right! I had a really good time tonight. It was like," he waved his arms in the air wildly, like he was trying to communicate through sign language, "Like I left myself, and was a different person."

Alfred stared at him. "Shit," he said, "I guess it really is my fault then. But, when I said that you should do things, I didn't mean you should do everything! Some things are…bad things."

Matthew's eyes widened. "Woah. Yeah."

Alfred couldn't help but snicker at the look on his brother's face. "You know, I wish I wasn't so terrified right now. Because this is kind of hilarious."

Matthew giggled, "Yeah."

"I just hope that Arthur and Francis's date is going well," Alfred said. Then his eyes widened in horror. "Oh God. I can't believe I just said that."

"I think it's kind of nice," Matthew said, between small fits of uncontrollable giggling, "It's like, you know…that movie. The one with two Lindsay Lohans."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, smirking, "Jesus, Matt. You are on another planet."

"No! It's…it's a real movie." He squinted in concentration, "You know. They go to Summer camp, and one of them's English…and Arthur would be the mom, and Papa would be the dad, and you would be Lindsay Lohan, and I would be…the other Lindsay Lohan."

Alfred stared, "I don't even know how to respond to that." Then he thought for a moment. "How could there be two of them in the same movie?"

"You know. They use computers, and stuff."

Alfred tilted his head to the side in confusion, "They made a second Lindsay Lohan with computers?"

This was too much for Matthew, who began to laugh so aggressively that tears started to roll down his face. Unfortunately, he also stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Alfred had to forcibly grab his brother to get him moving again.

Alfred sighed. It was going to be a long walk home.

"They're not going to kick me out for not wearing a ridiculous suit, are they?" Arthur asked snidely as they waited to be seated.

Francis scowled. "My suits are not ridiculous."

Arthur rolled his eyes, arms crossed, "It's eighty degrees outside, and humid. Your suits are absolutely ridiculous."

"Beauty is pain, _mon chére_."

Arthur snorted as they approached the end of the line. "Table for two?" a woman in a black apron asked.

"_Oui_, _merci,_" Francis told her, flashing her a charming smile.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Arthur grumbled incredulously as they were lead to their table, "Speak English, why don't you?"

Francis crooked an eyebrow at him, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. You see, 'oui' means yes, and-"

"I bloody well know what it means!" Arthur snapped, causing their hostess to look up in surprise as she was gesturing for them to take their seats. He muttered an apology to her, ears turning slightly pink.

"What I meant," he clarified, once they were properly seated, "Is that it is completely unnecessary, and you know it. You just throw French words into your conversations because you think that it impresses people."

Francis smirked from across the table. "Does it?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"Does it impress people?"

Arthur rested his face on one hand, elbow propping him up, and gazed out of the window. "Idiotic people, maybe."

The Frenchman's eyebrows shot up once again, "Well, thank goodness you are above all of the unintelligent masses."

"Hmmph." Arthur decided not to carry the conversation any farther, and settled instead for looking at anything that wasn't Francis. To his credit, the restaurant wasn't particularly lavish, but simple and small in the sort of way that meant they probably had excellent food. The tables were small, round, and draped with simple white tablecloths. Arthur had not been to a restaurant like this one in a very, very long time

"Do we have to sit so close to the window?" he asked, after a moment of thought.

Francis swiped his tongue over his teeth, like he was trying to make them even cleaner and brighter than they already were, "Why? Afraid that someone will see us?"

"Maybe."

Francis sighed dramatically. "Really, Arthur, don't you think that you are being a little paranoid? As you mentioned before, 'It's a big city'.

"Yes, fine. Forget I mentioned it," Arthur mumbled, crossing his arms.

They hardly spoke a word to each other as they sipped their drinks, waiting for their orders to be taken. Arthur had expected Francis to be much more proactive about starting up a conversation, and had consequently been entirely prepared to shoot him down. But the man sitting opposite him was surprisingly silent, sipping his wine slowly and taking long, wistful looks out onto the busy street.

When the waitress cam to take their orders, Francis said to Arthur, "We came here the other day, and the roast chicken was delicious."

Arthur said, "I'll have the steak, please."

It seemed to take centuries for their dinners to arrive; long, quiet, uncomfortable centuries filled with the distant conversations of happy couples and brief, accidental eye contact. When the food finally came, Francis winked at the waitress before she left, and Arthur could not contain his disgust any longer.

"You're unbelievable," he said, still not making eye contact with Francis.

"I don't see why it should bother you," he said nonchalantly, "After all, you have made it very clear that this is not a date…."

"It's not about that, frog. It's just...indecent. "

"Some people might call it 'charming'," Francis said as he began to eat.

"Or completely shameless."

"Either way, it has usually worked for me. I am good with people." Then, when Arthur snorted, "Well, not with you, obviously. But most people. It is why I have made it this far. It is why I have a job."

Arthur scowled, "Ah, yes. And what is your job, exactly?"

Francis didn't miss the tone of Arthur's voice. "Is that why you do not like me?" he asked, "Because I have money? Because you think that I am a greedy, corporate monster?"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, giving him a steady look that said, 'well, aren't you?'

Francis looked like he was about to experience a massive migraine. He rubbed softly at one of his temples before he began to speak, "I will be honest with you, Arthur. I never expected to end up where I am now. I only completed one year of university, but honestly, higher education is probably the least important thing to have in business. I was in the right place, at the right time. And I knew the right people." When Arthur still looked unimpressed, he added, "It is not the most honorable thing in the world; I am aware of that. But it had allowed me to give Matthew everything that he has needed." He looked straight into Arthur's eyes, "I am sure that you, of all people, can understand that."

Arthur bit his lip, unsure of how to respond. He pushed some of his food around on his plate before asking, voice now slightly subdued, "So, you…you never finished school? And you could still do…this?"

Francis gave Arthur a measured look, "Are you asking for yourself, or for Alfred?'

Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, still not quite looking at Francis. "He's really a smart boy," he said earnestly, "I know he doesn't always act like it, and he lacks anything that might be considered common sense, but…he loves science, and he's very good with numbers, when he gets the chance. I think he could have done very well in school, if the situation had been different."

Francis nodded, still watching Arthur meaningfully, "I believe you." Then he drummed his long fingers on the table nervously. "Arthur…I apologize if I am being intrusive, but we never really had a chance to discuss what you mentioned the other day."

Arthur looked up from his steak apprehensively, "About what?'

"About Alfred's…drug problem."

Arthur froze with his fork halfway to his mouth, before regaining his composure. "Alfred doesn't have a drug problem," he said shortly, "Not anymore. I don't see why we need to discuss this."

"Please, Arthur. I just want to help. But I need to know what has been happening with Alfred for all of these years."

Arthur fought to keep his voice level, "It was years ago. He was young and impulsive. It's over now."

"But, you see, it is just that that is…often not the case," Francis was choosing his words delicately.

"Is this why you brought me here?" Arthur accused, "To get me to tell you about Alfred's past?"

"I am not a spy, Arthur. You are being ridiculous. I just want to help you. Both of you."

"And what do you know about any of this?" Arthur asked darkly, "Why are you so fucking convinced that we need your help?"

Francis was beginning to get frustrated. "Why will you not accept it? You obviously care about Alfred, and you know that I have resources that you do not-"

There was a clash, as the force of Arthur repeatedly running his knife into his plate without looking caused it to flip over as he ran into its raised edge.

"Ow! Shit," Arthur hissed, one eye closing in pain as he cradled his left hand.

Francis's eyes widened in concern, "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Nothing, I just, I just cut my hand a little. It's fine." He reached for his napkin to cover the wound, and it immediately began to stain red. "Shit…."

"You are bleeding!"

"Yes, I realize that, thank you."

"Do you need to go to a hospital?"

Arthur rolled his eyes exasperatedly, "No, it's fine. Just…let's just go. Take me back to the apartment."

Francis gave Arthur a worried look as he began to wave the waitress over. "Of course. I will get the check."

"At least let me look at it."

"I told you, it isn't that bad. Please just leave."

They were in Arthur and Alfred's kitchen, and Arthur was sitting on the counter, still clutching the bloody napkin (which the waitress had kindly allowed him to keep) to his left hand. Francis was standing beside him, holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant that he had insisted they stop for on the way back.

"If it isn't that bad," Francis said gently, "Then why are you still holding onto it like it is your newborn child?"

The two stared each other down for a moment in an intense battle of will. Arthur broke first, and sighed heavily as he began to peel the napkin from his injured hand. He winced as he caught his first glimpse of it since they had been at the restaurant. He had somehow managed to cut the space in between his thumb and forefinger with his steak knife, and it was still bleeding freely.

Francis held out a hand expectantly. After a long pause, Arthur held out his hand, feeling slightly woozy and disoriented from the blood loss.

Francis took Arthur's hand gingerly, examining it carefully with long, graceful fingers. After a moment, his eyes flickered back up to meet Arthur's.

"We have to clean it," he announced, "You probably should have stitches."

Arthur shook his head while Francis walked over and turned on the sink, "I don't need stitches. Don't be so dramatic."

"Give me your hand," Francis sighed.

"I can do it myself."

"Yes. But you do not have to."

After a moment of silence, Arthur gave in for good, and allowed Francis to clean and dress his injury.

"Fuck. Ow," Arthur couldn't help but swear as Francis used the disinfectant.

"I am sorry."

Francis was just finishing wrapping Arthur's hand with the gauze when they began to hear voices approaching the door.

"Alfred and Matthew," Arthur said nervously.

"Ah, yes. This will be interesting to explain."

When the door clicked open, they were greeted with the sound of nervous whispers, and quiet, uncontrollable giggling. Then Alfred appeared, and he seemed to be all but dragging his brother into the apartment.

"C'mon, Matt, we're almost…oh, shit."

Alfred stood wide-eyed in the doorway as he noticed Arthur and Francis at the kitchen counter.

"Uh, Hey guys," he said nervously, trying to keep Matthew partially concealed behind him, "How was your night? We had a great time at Kiku's..."

Matthew, his credit, was making a valiant effort to contain his laughter, but failing miserably. Arthur and Francis both narrowed their eyes simultaneously, making Alfred gulp in terror.

"Matthew," Francis said calmly, "Come here."

Matthew shook his head slightly, still hiding behind his brother.

Francis's voice became stern, "Matthew."

Alfred sighed, "Just do it, man. It's over."

Matthew walked nervously over to his Papa, wide-eyed. When his son reached him, he placed a hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes, and sniffed the air around him slightly. Then he sighed.

"Oh, _Matthew._"

Arthur had shoved himself off of the counter, and was looking between Matthew and Alfred, furious. "Are you kidding me, Alfred? This had better be some kind of joke, I swear to God-"

"It wasn't me, I swear! It was Toni and Lovi, I left him alone with them for five seconds-"

"You were supposed to be with Kiku!"

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, but he had to work, and…I just wanted to have a little fun! I didn't know this would happen."

"That's always how it is, isn't it Alfred," Arthur said harshly, rubbing his forehead with his good hand, "You never fucking _think._"

"It isn't his fault," Matthew said softly, "It's mine. Really."

Francis met his son's eyes sternly, "You are right. You are responsible, Matthew."

"I'm sorry, Papa."

No one spoke for a moment after that. The sounds of the city took over though the far from soundproof walls, like a forest inevitably reclaiming an ancient structure.

The lull in conversation allowed Alfred time to notice the bandages on Arthur's hand, and the corners of his mouth turned down in concern. "What happened to your hand?" he asked, walking over to his roommate, "Are you okay?"

Arthur shook his head distractedly, "It's nothing."

"Did it happen on your date?" Alfred's voice was carefully devoid of any infection.

Arthur stared at him in shock, "What? It wasn't…how did you…."

"We saw you through the window."

Arthur glared at Francis, but it was more playful than his previous ones, "I told you we shouldn't have sat near the window."

Francis chuckled quietly.

Matthew fought back more laughter with his hand. "We thought it was like the movie with two Lindsay Lohans."

"Did you, now?" Francis tried to remain stern, but could not help the amusement that crept into his tone.

"Well, he did," Alfred said, "I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about."

Matthew laughed even harder, "Yeah, and then…and then Alfred asked if they made the second one out of computers."

Arthur smirked, "What?"

"But…it's nice," Matthew continued, dreamily, "Because at the end, they're all a family. Right?"

There was silence.

Alfred shared a heavy look with Arthur, while Francis ran his fingers gently through his son's hair.

"Uh," Alfred said, shoving his hands into his pockets, "You should probably go to bed, Mattie. You can crash here, if you want."

"I'm not tired."

Alfred smirked. "Don't listen to him," he said, mostly to Francis, "On the way here, he kept having nervous breakdowns every time we passed a traffic light."

"People just follow them!" Matthew squeaked, eyes widening in horror, "They…they don't even think about it! It's like…they're controlling us."

"Shh, Matt. It's gonna be okay. Just go to bed."

Matthew pouted, "But I'm hungry." Then his eyes brightened hopefully. "Hey, didn't you say something before about s'mores pizzas?"

Arthur tried to hold back his laughter. "Alfred, for the love of God, feed your poor brother."

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Alfred grumbled, "Oh, and I guess you're gonna have to sleep out here tonight. Sorry."

"Actually," Francis interjected, "There are two beds in our hotel room…."

Alfred spoke up before Arthur could. "Um, yeah. Not gonna happen," he said, with an accusatory glare in Francis's direction.

Francis ignored him, continuing to address Arthur, "There is air conditioning."

"Absolutely not," Arthur said resolutely.

"There is also a mini-bar."

Arthur struggled with himself for a moment before giving in to inevitability, "Um, Alfred, you two will be okay on your own tonight, won't you?"

Alfred gaped at him. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Oh, come on, Alfred. Be mature; I just need a place to sleep."

"Yeah, 'sleep'- hey, Matthew, what are you doing?"

Matthew, bored of the conversation, had turned to the fridge, and was pulling objects out of it, and dropping them on the floor behind him.

"I'm…hungry…."

Francis moved closer to Arthur, to whisper in his ear, "I believe that may be our cue to leave."

Arthur couldn't have agreed more.

Francis hailed the two of them a taxi. As soon as they were seated, and the city was flashing past with the speed that only cab drivers could ever achieve, Francis began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Arthur asked incredulously, "Your son has just been introduced to drugs."

But Francis only chuckled harder. "Oh, _mon Dieu_," he said in between hearty chuckles, "Did you hear him? What was the part about…about the traffic lights?"

Arthur stared at him like he was a particularly disturbing exhibit at a zoo. "You…you are a terrible father."

"I know," Francis gasped, wiping tears from his eyes, "I know, it is just…oh, Matthew…."

Arthur was now having trouble holding back his own laughter. "It was quite ridiculous," he admitted, "What was he saying, about there being two Lindsay Lohans?"

"Oh, God, I do not know." His laughter died down to a few, scattered chuckles, "Poor Matthew. He has never done anything like this before in his life. He will be apologizing for the next year, if I know him."

"Hm," Arthur looked out the window, still smirking. Francis took the chance to steal a glance at his companion, noting with satisfaction the pleasant change in the atmosphere.

"Do you enjoy dancing?" Francis asked, words slightly slurred and lazy. He was spread out across his hotel bed, head on the pillows with his feet dangling off, and a bottle of wine in one hand. On the floor, with his head resting against the bed, and surrounded by small, empty bottles of liquor, was Arthur. From his position, all Francis could see of him was a tuft of very blond hair.

Arthur blinked confusedly at the question. "M' not going to dance with you," he said, as firmly as he could.

"No, no, no, no, no," Francis clarified, "I mean, on stage. Do you like dancing, on stage."

Arthur scrunched up his face, "Why?"

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself up there. Very…passionate."

Arthur tried to reach up and hit him, but only succeeded in giving the bed a good thumping before letting his arm hit the ground in resignation. "Used to take classes back in England. It was mostly to upset my dad, but, I guess didn't mind it," he laughed slightly, just a smile and a puff of air, "Was worth the beatings I got from my brothers."

Francis scowled, "I can understand why you left."

"Hm." Then, in a sudden burst of motion, Arthur forced himself up and onto Francis's bed. He lay there on his stomach, laying across Francis's legs, and looking sleepily into his eyes.

"D'you have anymore wine?" he breathed. Francis's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly.

"It is bad to mix alcohols."

"Do I look like…like I care…." Arthur was having some difficulty keeping his eyes more than halfway open.

Francis chuckled. "You know," he said, "I wanted to tell you before…you speak very posh, for a stripper."

"M' a writer," Arthur clarified. He was a breath away from Francis's face, and he could still feel the alcohol burning dully in the back of his throat. When he leaned down, and his lips pressed in to Francis's, it felt as if he was finally allowing gravity to take its natural course.

Francis breathed out, the air from his nose hot on Arthur's face, and his eyelids quickly fluttered shut. From then on, Arthur could not find the resistance to stop himself from being touched. As Francis ran his hands up his shirt, tracing the bones in his spine, he was overwhelmed with a combination of excitement and comfort that prompted him to press himself closer to Francis, wanting more, sinking into him. And when their bodies began to meet each other in all of the right ways, the sensations jumped right into Arthur's throat, sending startled, pleasured noises flying out of his mouth.

Not too far away, in a neighborhood far less pleasant than the one that Francis and Arthur were inhabiting, Alfred and Matthew were sharing a futon, and Alfred was laughing and listening patiently as Matthew talked about life, getting the crumbs of a freshly made s'mores pizza all over the blankets. The next day, Francis would wake up, and would moan about how embarrassing it was that they had only rutted against each other like teenagers, before falling asleep like old men, and Arthur would try very hard to find him annoying. Matthew, as Francis had predicted, would apologize over and over, while Alfred would shoot protective glares at Francis whenever he got the chance.

But, for the moment, they were all content to just enjoy the fact that they had somehow managed to find one another.


End file.
